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POETICAL WORKS 


OF 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

\\ 


COMPLETE EDITION , WITH MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY 

ILLUSTRATIONS. 





i. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
t872. 

















Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTV V E .. N D R i N E D n \ 
H. O. HOUGH I 
















. 




US 


4 




<3 





CONTENTS. 


—♦— 

VOICES OF THE NIGHT. page 

Prelude.. 

■s*- Hymn to the Night . 3 

A Psalm of Life.4 

''•Footsteps of Angels. 4 

The Reaper and the Flowers.5 

The Light of Stars. 6 

Flowers.7 

The Beleagured City. 8 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year.9 

EARLIER POEMS. 

An April Day.11 

Autumn.12 

Woods in Winter.13 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem ...... 14 


1 iTTON 

The Good Shepherd.25 

To-morrow.25 

The Native Land.25 

The Image of God.25 

The Brook.26 

The Celestial Pilot.26 

The Terrestrial Paradise.27 

Beatrice.28 

Spring.29 

The Child Asleep . ’ 29 

The Grave. 29 

King Christian.30 


1 



































iv CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The Happiest Land.31 

The Wave ............. 31 

The Dead.31 

The Bird and the Ship .......... 32 

Whither ?.33 

Beware ! . 33 

Song of the Bell.33 

The Castle by the Sea.34 

The Black Knight.34 

Song of the Silent Land.35 

L’Envoi.35 

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

The Skeleton in Armor .......... 36 

The Wreck of the Hesperus. 39 

The Luck of Edenhall.41 

The Elected Knight ..42 

The Children of the Lord’s Supper . ... . . . . *43 

Miscellaneous. 

The Village Blacksmith. 50 

The Rainy Day ............ 52 

Endymion ............ 52 

Blind Bartimeus ... . 53 

To the River Charles.53 

Excelsior.55 

Maidenhood.55 

God’s-Acre.57 

The Two Locks of Hair ..57 

It is not always May.58 

The Goblet of Life.59 

POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

To William E. Channing ..61 

The Slave’s Dream.61 

The Good Part. 62 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp.63 

The Slave singing at Midnight.63 

The Quadroon Girl.04 

The Witnesses.65 

The Warning.65 

THE SPANISH STUDENT.66 

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 

Carillon.101 

The Belfry of Bruges.101 

Miscellaneous. 

The Arsenal at Springfield.103 

Nuremberg ............. 104 











































CONTENTS. 


V 


PAGE 


The Bridge.106 

The Norman Baron.108 

A Gleam of Sunshine.no 

To a Child . hi 

Rain in Summer.114 

To the Driving Cloud.116 

The Occultation of Orion.117 


Songs. 

The Day is done. 

Drinking Song. 

To an old Danish Song-Book 
The Arrow and the Song 

Sea-Weed. 

The Old Clock on the Stairs . 

Afternoon in February 
Walter von der Vogelvveid 

Sonnets. 

Autumn. 

Dante. 

The Evening Star .... 

Translations. 

The Hemlock Tree .... 

Annie of Tharaw. 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door . 
The Legend of the Cross-bill . 

The Sea hath its Pearls 

Poetic Aphorisms. 

Curfew. 

EVANGELINE. A TALE OF ACADIE . 

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 
Dedication. 

By the Seaside. 

The Building of the Ship 
The Evening Star .... 
The Secret of the Sea . . . . 

The Fire of Drift-Wood 

The Lighthouse. 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert 

Twilight. 

By the Fireside. 

—Resignation. 

The Builders. 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass . 


118 

1 19 L 

120 
121 
121 
122 
124 
I24 


126 

127 

I27 


128 

129 
129 

130 
130 

130 

131 

132 


178 


179 

188 

188 

189 

190 
192 
192 


194 

195 

196 






































vi CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

King Witlaf’s Drinking-Horn. J 97 

Birds of Passage.*9^ 

Gaspar Becerra.. • *9^ 

The Open Window. l 99 

Pegasus in Pound. *99 

Tegner’s Drapa. 200 

The Singers. 201 

Hymn. 20 3 

Sonnet. 20 4 

Suspiria . . '. 20 4 

The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuillfc. 2 °4 

A Christmas Carol. 20 9 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND.211 

* • * 

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


I. The Peace-Pipe.292 

II. The Four Winds.295 

ill. Hiawatha’s Childhood.298 

iv. Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis . . . . . . . • 3 GI 

v. Hiawatha’s Fasting .. 3°5 

VI. Hiawatha’s Friends. 3°9 

vii. Hiawatha’s Sailing.311 

VIII. Hiawatha’s Fishing.313 

ix. Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather.316 

x. Hiawatha’s Wooing.319 

XI. Hiawatha’s Wedding-Feast ....... • 323 

xii. The Son of the Evening Star.326 

Xiii. Blessing the Cornfields.330 

Xiv. Picture-Writing.333 

xv. Hiawatha’s Lamentation. 335 

xvi. Pau-Puk-Keewis . 338 

xvii. The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis . 341 

xviii. The Death of Kwasind.346 

xix. The Ghosts.347 

xx. The Famine.350 

xxi. The White Man’s Foot.353 

xxii. Hiawatha’s Departure.356 

Vocabulary.359 

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

I. Miles Standish.362 

II. Love and Friendship.364 

in. The Lover’s Errand.366 

iv. John Alden.371 

v. The Sailing of the May Flower . . *.375 

vi. Priscilla.378 

VII. The March of Miles Standish ....... 381 

viii. The Spinning-Wheel. 383 

ix. The Wedding-Day.387 







































CONTENTS. 


vii 


OF PASSAGE. page 

metheus, or the Poet’s Forethought.390 

Ladder of St. Augustine.390 

'hantom Ship.391 

d Houses.392 

•den of the Cinque Ports.393 

irchyard at Cambridge.394 

or’s Bird’s-Nest.394 

Cemetery at Newport.395 

els.396 

^. 397 

. 398 

L nlight.399 

M) . 399 

The ,.alk.401 

The golden Mile-Stone.402 

Catawba Wine ........... 403 

Santa Filomena ............ 404 

The Discoverer of the North Cape.405 

Daybreak.407 

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz.408 

Children. 408 

Sandalphon.409 

Epimetheus, or the Poet’s Afterthought.410 

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Prelude 

The Wayside Inn . . ..412 

The Landlord’s Tale 

Paul Revere’s Ride.416 

Interlude..419 

The Student’s Tale 

The Falcon of Ser Federigo.419 

Interlude.426 

The Spanish Jew’s Tale 

The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi.426 

Interlude.428 

The Sicilian’s Tale 

King Robert of Sicily.428 

Interlude .. 433 

The Musician’s Tale 

The Saga of King Olaf. 433 

I. The Challenge of Thor. 433 

II. King Olaf’s Return. 433 

ill. Thora of Rimol .. 434 

iv. Queen Sigrid the Haughty. 435 

v. The Skerry of Shrieks. 43 ^ 

VI. The Wraith of Odin.438 

vii. Iron-Beard. 439 

VIII. Gudrun. 44 1 

ix. Thangbrand the Priest . . ..44 2 

x. Raud the Strong .. 443 









































viii CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

xi. Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord. 443 

xii. King Olaf’s Christmas.. . • 444 

xiii. The Building of the Long Serpent. 445 

xiv. The Crew of the Long Serpent. 447 

xv. A Little Bird in the Air. 44 § 

xvi. Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks. 44$ 

xvn. King Svend of the Forked Beard ..../• 45 ° 

xviii. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald . 45 ° 

xix. King Olaf’s War-Horns. • • 45 1 

xx. Einar Tamberskelver. 45 2 

xxi. King Olaf’s Death-Drink. 45 2 

xxii. The Nun of Nidaros. 453 

Interlude. 455 

The Theologian’s Tale 

Torquemada ............ 455 

Interlude. 460 

The Poet’s Tale 

The Birds of Killingworth.460 

Finale.465 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FLIGHT THE SECOND. 

The Children’s Hour.466 

Something Left Undone .......... 466 

Enceladus ............. 466 

Weariness.467 

Snow-Flakes.468 

A Day of Sunshine.468 

The Cumberland .. . 469 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Flower-de-Luce ... . 470 

Palingenesis . . . . . . . . . . . . 471 

The Bridge of Cloud.472 

The Wind over the Chimney.473 

Hawthorne. 474 

Christmas Bells. .475 

Kambalu.473 

The Bells of Lynn. 476 

Divina Commedia.477 

To-morrow.478 

Killed at the Ford..479 

Giotto’s Tower.480 

Noel .............. 481 

NOTES .. . 483 





































LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

—♦— 

VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 


DESIGNED BY PAGE 


Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground . 

Birket Foster 

i 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 

Jane E. Hay 

3 

Country Churchyard. 

Birket Foster 

5 

There is no light in earth or heaven, but the cold, etc. 

ib. 

6 

Flowers .. 

Jane E. Hay 

7 

Flowers. 

John Gilbert 

8 

There he stands in the foul weather . 

ib. 

9 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, and the forests utter a moan 

Birket Foster 

IO 

EARLIER POEMS. 

Inverted in the tide stand the gray rocks . 

Birket Foster 

n 

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke .... 

ib. 

12 

O’er the bare upland, and away. 

ib. 

13 

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills . 

ib. 

15 

In the green valley, where the silver brook 

ib. 

l6 

And a band of stern in heart, and strong in hand 

ib. 

17 

And swift an arrow cleaved its way to his stern heart 

ib. 

18 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! . 

.... 

26 

So thou shalt in mould, dwell full cold . . . . 

Birket Foster 

30 

Full and swollen is every sail ...... 

ib. 

32 

After the Evening’s close. 

ib. 

35 

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Round Tower at Newport. Birket Foster 

36 

And in the forest’s shade our vows were plighted 

ib. 

37 

Then launched they to the blast. 

ib. 

38 

The skipper he stood beside the helm . . . . 

John Gilbert 

39 

The breakers were right beneath her bows 

Birket Foster 

40 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach. 

ib. 

41 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree the village smithy stands 

ib. 

5 ° 

And children coming home from school look in 

F. O. C. Darley 

5 i 

He hears his daughter’s voice, singing in the village choir 

Birket Foster 

5 i 

The rising moon has hid the stars. 

ib. 

52 

Diana. 

Jane E. Hay 

53 

River ! that in silence windest. 

Birket Foster 

54 






X LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


DESIGNED BY 

PAGE 

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 

John Gilbert 

55 

Standing, with reluctant feet, where the brook and river 

ib. 

56 

This is the field and Acre of our God .... 

Birket Foster 

57 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear. 

ib. 

53 

Enjoy tht Spring of Love and Youth .... 

ib. 

59 

POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



And then at furious speed he rode. 

Birket Foster 

61 

He crouched in the rank and tangled grass 

ib. 

63 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon lay moored 

ib. 

64 

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry 

Birket Foster 

102 

House of Albrecht Diirer. 

ib. 

I0 5. 

Albrecht Diirer, from the portrait by himself . 

. 

105 

I stood on the bridge at midnight. 

Birket Foster 

107 

In his chamber, weak and dying. 

ib. 

108 

In the hall, the serf and vassal. 

ib. 

109 

This is the place. Stand still, my steed .... 

ib. 

no 

With what a look of proud command .... 

Jane E. Hay 

in 

Dashed it on Coromandel’s strand ..... 

R. S. Gifford 

112 

Residence of Longfellow (formerly Washington’s) 

Birket Foster 

112 

Thou comest back to parley with repose .... 

Jane E. Hay 

113 

Near at hand, from under the sheltering trees 

Birket Foster 

115 

Tail-piece.. . 

ib. 

116 

The moon was pallid, but not faint. 

Jane E. Hay 

117 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken ...... 


119 

Once Prince Frederick’s Guard ...... 

Birket Foster 

120 

From the tumbling surf, that buries the Orkneyan skerries 

ib. 

122 

There groups of merry children played .... 

ib. 

123 

The day is ending, the night is descending .... 

John Gilbert 

124 

On his tomb the birds were feasted. 

Jane E. Hay 

125 

Autumn .......... 

Birket Foster 

126 

Dante, from the fresco by Giotti. 

• • • • 

127 

Reclines behind the sombre screen of yonder pines 

Birket Foster 

127 

O hemlock tree ! how faithful are thy branches 

.... 

128 

Dark grow the windows, and quenched is the fire 

Birket Foster 

131 

EVANGELINE. 



This is the forest primeval. 

Birket Foster 

132 

Waste are those pleasant farms. 

ib. 

133 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest 

ib. 

134 

She bore to the reapers at noontide flagons of home-brewed ale 

F. 0 . C. Darley 

135 

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 

Birket Foster 

136 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well . 

ib. 

136 

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes . 

ib. 

137 

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests 

ib. 

133 

Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heifer . 

ib. 

139 

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains . 

ib. 

140 

Not so thinketh the folk in the village .... 

John Gilbert 

141 

More than a hundred children’s children rode on his knee . 

ib. 

142 

In friendly contention the old men laughed 

f 

ib. 

144 







LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


xi 

Now from the country around, from the farms 

DESIGNED BY 

Birket Foster 

PAGE 

I46 

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 

ib. 

I46 

Without, in the churchyard, waited the women 

ib. 

147 

Driving in ponderous wains their household goods 

F. O. C. Darley 

150 

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars 

Birket Foster 

151 

Suddenly rose from the south a light. 

ib. 

152 

Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches 

ib. 

153 

Recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking 

ib. 

153 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi . 

ib. 

156 

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands . 

ib. 

157 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed . 

ib. 

158 

Resplendent in beauty, the lotus lifted her golden crown 

ib. 

159 

Safely their boat was moored. 

ib. 

160 

Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands 

ib. 

l6l 

The house itself was of timbers, hewn from the cypress-tree 

ib. 

162 

Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups 

F. O. C. Darley 

I63 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains 

Birket Foster 

166 

With horses, and guides, and companions, Gabriel left . 

ib. 

I67 

When they had reached the place, they found only embers 

F. O. C. Darley 

168 

Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village 

Birket Foster 

170 

In that delightful land .. 

ib. 

172 

Night after night, when the world was asleep . 

ib. 

173 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn .... 

Jane E. Hay 

174 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt 

F. O. C. Darley 

175 

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping 

Birket Foster 

176 

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline’s story 

ib. 

177 

Tail-piece . ... . 


177 

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel.R. S. Gifford 

179 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall 

ib. 

179 

A beautiful and gallant craft. 

ib. 

180 

In the ship-yard stood the Master. 

W. J. Hennessy 

ISO 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ...... 

ib. 

l82 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, loomed aloft the shadowy hulk 

ib. 

183 

And at the bows an image stood. 

ib. 

183 

The jaded steers, panting beneath the goad .... 

ib. 

I84 

In foreign harbors shall behold that flag unrolled 

R. S. Gifford 

185 

The ocean old, centuries old ...... 

ib. 

185 

With one exulting, joyous bound, she leaps 

W. J. Hennessy 

186 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 0 gentle, loving, trusting wife . 

ib. 

187 

Tail-piece. 

ib. 

188 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me as I gaze upon the sea 

R. S. Gifford 

188 

Saw a fair and stately galley, steering onward . 

Birket Foster 

I89 

We sat within the farm-house old. 

ib. 

190 

The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry 

ib. 

191 

A little face at the window peers out into the night 

Jane E. Hay 

193 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, the wind blows wild and free 

Birket Foster 

193 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying 

. 

194 

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion 

. 

195 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth .... 

Jane E. Hay 

I96 

So sat they once at Christmas, and bade the goblet pass 

Birket Foster 

197 







Xll 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


I saw the nursery windows wide open to the air 

DESIGNED BY 

Birket Foster 

PAGE 

199 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire. 

E. Wenhert 

201 

The second, with a bearded face ..... 

ib. 

202 

A gray old man, the third and last. 

ib. 

203 

Tail-piece. 

Birket Foster 

210 

THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

All the Saints and Guardian Angels throng in legions 

Birket Foster 

211 

You behold in me only a travelling physician . 

ib. 

213 

The storm, that against your casement drives 

ib. 

214 

Like a vapor the golden vision shall fade and pass . 

ib. 

217 

How now, my friend ! This looks quite lonely . 

ib. 

2l8 

The day is done ; and slowly from the scene . 

ib. 

220 

And lo ! he heard the sudden singing of a bird . 

Jane E. Hay 

221 

Prince Henry seated , with a book. Elsie, at a distance 

Birket Foster 

223 

They are sitting with Elsie at the door .... 

ib. 

224 

He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange . 

ib. 

226 

My Redeemer and my Lord, I beseech Thee . 

Jane E. Hay 

227 

I saw our little Gertrude die ...... 

ib. 

229 

Why keep me pacing to and fro .... 

Birket Foster 

23O 

Lo ! with what depth of blackness thrown .... 

ib. 

236 

A pulpit in the open air, and a Friar .... 

ib. 

23 s 

Under the doorway’s sacred shadow ..... 

ib. 

239 

How very grand it is and wonderful .... 

ib. 

241 

Along the garden walk, and thence through the wicket 

Jane E. IIay 

243 

Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth ..... 

ib. 

244 

0 Joseph ! I am much afraid. 

ib. 

245 

Now, little Jesus, the carpenter’s son .... 

ib. 

247 

With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned .... 

ib. 

249 

Why am I travelling here beside thee .... 

Birket Foster 

250 

Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs 

ib. 

251 

What is this castle that rises above us .... 

ib. 

252 

Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel 

ib. 

253 

Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey . 

ib. 

253 

I always enter this sacred place with a thoughtful 

Jane E. Hay 

254 

In that ancient town of Bacharach ..... 

Birket Foster 

255 

There, now, there is one in her nest ..... 

Jane E. Hay 

256 

Slowly, slowly up the wall, steals the sunshine 

Birket Foster 

258 

It is Count Hugo, of the Rhine. 

Jane E. Hay 

260 

Do you, brother Paul, creep under the window 

Birket Foster 

261 

I feel my soul drawn unto thee, strangely and strongly 

ib. 

265 

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, fairest, noblest, best of all . 

Jane E. Hay 

266 

Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds 

Birket Foster 

267 

Yonder lies the Lake of the Four Forest-Towns 

ib. 

270 

This bridge is called the Devil’s Bridge .... 

ib. 

271 

This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers leap 

ib. 

272 

Land of the Madonna ! how beautiful it is . 

ib. 

2 73 

It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly .... 

ib. 

275 

The night is calm and cloudless ...... 

ib. 

277 

On before the freshening gale ...... 

ib. 

279 

She is a galley of the Gran Duca ..... 

ib. 

279 

There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield 

Jane E. Hay 

280 















LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


DESIGNED BY 


Who is it coming under the trees ?. 

Birket Foster 

They are sailing homeward down the Rhine 


ib. 

And midway an old man of threescore .... 

Jane 

E. Hay 

See yonder fire ! It is the moon. 

Birket Foster 

Fainter and fainter the black lines begin to quiver 

Jane 

E. Hay 

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



There he sung of Hiawatha. 

Geo. 

H. Thomas 

The Peace-Pipe. 


ib. 

All the tribes beheld the signal. 


ib. 

Honor be to Mudjekeewis ....... 


ib. 

O that I were dead ! she murmured ..... 


ib. 

Forth he strode into the forest ...... 


ib. 

Long he looked at Hiawatha ...... 


ib. 

And straightway his pipe he lighted. 


ib. 

And thus sailed my Hiawatha. 


ib. 

That the birch canoe stood endwise. 


ib. 

Then the angry Pliawatha raised his mighty bow 


ib. 

Of the past the old man’s thoughts were .... 


ib. 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis ..... 


ib. 

And the sisters and their husbands laughed 


ib. 

And whene’er some lucky maiden found a red ear . 


ib. 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking in the solitary forest 


ib. 

Broke the treacherous ice beneath him .... 


ib. 

In a wooden bowl he placed them. 


ib. 

With a smile he spake in this wise : O my friend Ahmeek 


ib. 

There they stood, all armed and waiting .... 


ib. 

On the ice the noisy ball-play. 


ib. 

With both hands his face he covered .... 


ib. 

O’er it, said he, o’er this water came a great canoe 


ib. 

Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face .... 


ib. 

Tail-piece .. 



Tail-piece. 

. 

• 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling . 
Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed . 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand 
As he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden 
I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage . 
Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered . 
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth . 
Then from the rattlesnake’s /skin, with a sudden 
And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down 
Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore 
Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present 
The men were intent on their labors, busy with hewing 
He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended 
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud . 

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal 


John Absolon 
M. S. Morgan 
ib. 

John Absolon 
ib. 

M. S. Morgan 
ib. 

John Absolon 
M. S. Morgan 
John Absolon 
M. S. Morgan 
Birket Foster 
John Absolon 
ib. 

M. S. Morgan 


PAGE 

285 

287 

288 

289 

290 


292 

293 

294 
296 
300 
302 
3°6 
310 
3 12 
3i4 
317 
321 

324 

327 

332 

334 

336 

340 

343 

347 

348 
352 
355 
357 
359 
361 


362 

364 

367 

368 

369 

372 

373 
375 
377 
379 
382 

384 

386 

388 

389 
















xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


DESIGNED BY 

PAGE 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



When, steadily steering landward, a ship was seen below . 

M. S. Morgan 

392 

I saw them pause on their celestial way .... 

John Absolon 

396 

In the Valley of the Vire still is seen an ancient mill . 

M. S. Morgan 

398 

Two fair maidens in a swing, like white doves upon the wing 

John Absolon 

401 

Sea-fog drifting overhead. 


402 

By the fireside there are old men seated .... 

M. S. Morgan 

403 

Lo ! in that house of misery a lady with a lamp I see 

John Absolon 

405 

And o’er the farms, 0 chanticleer, your clarion blow . 

Birket Foster 

407 

Come to me, O ye children ! for I hear you at your play . 

John Absolon 

408 

Ye are better than all the ballads that ever were sung or said 

John Gilbert 

409 

Tail-piece.“. 

ib. 

411 

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Like an old Patriarch he appeared, Abraham or Isaac 

John Gilbert 

414 

By the trembling ladder steep and tall, to the highest window 

ib. 

417 

He watched with eager search the belfry tower . 

ib. 

418 

His only forester and only guest his falcon 

John Tenniel 

420 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil. 

M. E. Edwards 

423 

No longer victor, but the victim thou ! . . . . 

John Tenniel 

424 

Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task so sweet to me . 

ib. 

425 

He saw the Angel of Death before him stand . 

John Gilbert 

427 

And when they were alone, the Angel said, Art thou the King ? 

• • • • 

432 

Loudly through the wide-flung door, came the roar of the sea 

Birket Foster 

437 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, blew a blast . 

John Gilbert 

440 

In the glimmer of the moon stands Gudrun 

• • • • 

441 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, as he sat . 

John Gilbert 

446 

Northward over Drontheim flew the clamorous sea-gulls . 

Birket Foster 

449 

Alone in her chamber knelt Astrid the Abbess . 

John Gilbert 

454 

The splendor overhead, the death below .... 

• . • • 

456 

And to the statues of the Prophets bound, the victims stood 

M. E. Edwards 

459 

The green steeples of the piny wood. 

Birket Foster 

463 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FLIGHT THE 

SECOND. 


0 little feet! that such long years must wander on 

• • • • 

467 

Silent, and soft, and slow descends the snow . 

John Gilbert 

468 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER 

POEMS. 


Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers. 

H. Fenn 

470 

I lay upon the headland-height. 

G. Perkins 

47 i 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 


474 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball came out of a wood 

W. Waud 

479 

Giotto’s Tower. 

S. Colman, Jr. 

480 








VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

1 839. 


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'Aya.p.ep.voviov errl Sopor ' 
vi to yap a\ye<av, viro re crvp.<f>opas 
Sioi\6pe0’, olxopeda. — HURIPIDES. 



PRELUDE 


Pleasant it was, when woods were green 
And winds were soft and low. 

To lie amid some sylvan scene, 

Where, the long drooping boughs between 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 


Or where the denser grove receives 
No sunlight from above, 

Hut the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 
The shadows hardly move. 


Beneath some patriarchal tree 
I lay upon the ground ; 

His hoary arms uplifted he, 

And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 
With one continuous sound ; — 



































2 


VOICES OF THE EIGHT. 


A slumberous sound, a sound that brings 
The feelings of a dream, 

As of innumerable wings, 

As, when a bell no longer swings, 

Faint the hollow murmur rings 
O’er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 
Bright visions, came to me, 

As lapped in thought I used to lie, 

And gaze into the summer sky, 

Where the sailing clouds went by, 

Like ships upon the sea; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 
Ere Fancy has been quelled; 

Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 

Tales that have the rime of age, 

And chronicles of eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 
Even in the city’s throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 

That, crossed by shades and sunny 
gleams, 

Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride, 

When nestling buds unfold their wings, 
And bishop’s-caps have golden rings, 
Musing upon many things, 

I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild ; 

It was a sound of joy ! 

They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 

“ Come, be a child once more ! ” 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 
And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar, — 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 

Solemn and silent everywhere ! 


Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue 
Of tall and sombrous pines ; 

Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
And, where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapor soft and blue, 

In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower, 

The dreams of youth came back again, 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain, 

As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 

And distant voices seemed to say, 

“ It cannot be ! They pass away ! 

Other themes demand thy lay; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

‘‘The land of Song within thee lies, 
Watered by living springs ; 

The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes 
Are gates unto that Paradise, 

Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 

Its clouds are angels’ wings. 

“ Learn, that henceforth thy song shall 
be, 

Not mountains capped with snow 
Nor forests sounding like the sea, 

Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 

Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 

“ There is a forest where the din 
Of iron branches sounds ! 

A mighty river roars between, 

And whosoever looks»therein 
Sees the heavens all black with sin, 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

“Athwart the swinging branches cast, 
Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 

Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 

Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast, 
Pallid lips say, ‘ It is past! 

We can return no more ! ’ 












HYMN TO THE NIGHT 


3 


“ Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into Life’s deep stream ! 

All forms of sorrow and delight, 


All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 
Be these henceforth thy theme.” 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

'AcnracTL-q, rpiAAiOTOS. 

# 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! . 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light! 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 
Stoop o’er me from above ; 

The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 
As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and de¬ 
light, 

The manifold, soft chimes, 


That fill the haunted chambers of the 
Night, 

Like some old poet’s rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight 
air 

My spirit drank repose ; 

The fountain of perpetual peace flows 
there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of 
Care, * 

And they complain no more. 






























4 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 


4 VOICES C 

IF THE NIGHT. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe 
this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the 
most fair, 

The best-beloved Night! 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

A PSALM OF LIFE. 

When the hours of Day are numbered. 

And the voices of the Night 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN 

SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 

To a holy, calm delight ; 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 

And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 

Dance upon the parlor wall ; 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 

The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more ; 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Pie, the young and strong, who cher 
ished 

Noble longings for the strife, 

By the roadside fell and perished, 

Weary with the march of life ! 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and 
brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 

Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 

Spake with us on earth no more ! 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 

Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 

And is now a saint in heaven. 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 

Act, — act in the living Present! 

Hearty within, and God o’erhead ! 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 

Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 

Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of time ; — 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 

Looking downward from the skies. 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A. forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

U ttered not, yet comprehended, 

Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 

Breathing from her lips of air. 








THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 


5 


O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 


THE REAPER AND THE FLOW¬ 
ERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is 
Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
And the flowers that grow between. 

“ Shall I have naught that is fair ? ” 
saith he ; 

“ Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is 
sweet to me, 

I will give them all back again.” 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
Pie kissed their drooping leaves ; 


It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

“ My Lord has need of these flowerets 

gay,” 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 

“ Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where he was once a child. 

“ They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
Transplanted by my care, 

And saints, upon their garments white, 
These sacred blossoms wear.” 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all 
again 

In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 

’T was an angel visited the green earth, 
And took the flowers away. 
















6 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 


THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 

All silently, the little moon 
Drops clown behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams ? 

O no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero’s armor gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 
When I behold afar, 

Suspended in the evening skies, 

The shield of that red star. 

O star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 



kLVlZEIELL Y.SC 


Within my breast there is no light 
But the cold light of stars ; 

I give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 
He rises in my breast, 

Serene, and resolute, and still, 
And calm, and self-possessed. 


And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art 
That readest this brief psalm, 
As one by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this, 
And thon shalt know erelong. 
Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 





































FLOWERS. 



Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 

Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 

Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation, 

In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the selfsame universal being, 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 


Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 


Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver 
lining, 

Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all w.oven in gorgeous 
tissues, 

Flaunting gayly in the golden light; 

Large desires, with most uncertain is¬ 
sues, 

Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 


These in flowers and men are more than 
seeming; 

Workings are they of the selfsame 
powers, 

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is 
born ; 




























VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


Others, their blue eyes with tears over¬ 
flowing, 

Stand like Ruth amid the golden 
corn; 

Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing, 
And in Summer’s green-emblazoned 
field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wear¬ 
ing, 

In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the 
brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland val¬ 
leys, 

Where the slaves of nature stoop to 
drink; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 


But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 

On the tombs of heroes, carved in 
stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling 
towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flow¬ 
ers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
Flowers expand their light and soul¬ 
like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive rea¬ 
sons, 

How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection —■ 
We behold their tender buds expand; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 





•r 


THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 


I have read, in some old, marvellous 
tale, 

Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, 
With the wap moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 

The army of the dead. 


White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
The spectral camp was seen, 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry’s pace ; 

The mist-like banners clasped the air, 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 














MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 9 


The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 
The troubled army fled ; 

•Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of 
man, 

That strange and mystic scroll, 

That an army of phantoms vast and 
wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 


Upon its midnight battle-ground 
The spectral camp is seen, 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there, 

In the army of the grave ; 

No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life’s wave. 

And when the solemn and deep church-bell 
Entreats the soul to pray, 

The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 
The shadows sweep away. 


Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream, 
In Fancy’s misty light, 

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 
_Portentous through the night. 


Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
The spectral camp is fled ; 

Faith shineth as a morning star, 
Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY¬ 
ING YEAR. 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 

And his eye is pale and bleared ! 
Death, with frosty hand and cold, 

Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow ; 

Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling, 


It is a sound of woe, 

A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll; 
They are chanting solemn masses, 
Singing, “ Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray, pray ! ” 

And the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 
And patter their doleful prayers ; 














IO 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 


But their prayers are all in vain, 

All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 

Crowned with wild-flowers and with 
heather, 

Like weak, despised Lear, 

A king, a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day, 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 

His joy! his last! O, the old man 
gray 

Loveth that ever-soft voice, 

Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter’s 
breath, 

“ Pray do not mock me so ! 

Do not laugh at me ! ” 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 

No stain from its breath is spread 


Over the glassy skies, 

No mist or stain ! 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 

And the forests utter a moan, 

Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone, 

“ Vex not his ghost! ” 

Then comes, with an awful roar, 
Gathering and sounding on, 

The storm-wind from Labrador, 

The wind Euroclydon, 

The storrmwmd ! 

Howl! howl! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves away ! 

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 

O Soul! could thus decay, 

And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 
There shall be a darker day ; 

And the stars, from heaven down-cast, 
Like red leaves be swept away ? 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 

Christe, eleyson ! 













EARLIER POEMS. 


[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of 
nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and 
precarious existence in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed their names and run away to seek their 
fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion : “ I cannot be dis¬ 
pleased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their 
wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more 
decorous garb.”] 



AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
’T is sweet to visit the still wood, where 
springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 

When forest glades are teeming with 
bright forms, 

Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 
The coming-on of storms. 


From the earth’s loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and 
thrives ; 

Though stricken to the heart with win¬ 
ter’s cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and 
colored wings 

Glance quick in the bright sun, that 
moves along 

The forest openings. 






































12 


EARLIER POEMS. 


When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green 
slope throws 

Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born, 

In the blue lake the sky, o’er-reaching 
far, 

Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her 
horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 


Inverted in the tide 

Stand the gray rocks, and trembling 
shadows throw, 

And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April! many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are 
wed; • 

Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn 
brought, 

Life’s golden fruit is shed. / 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes 
the year! 

The buds of spring, those beautiful har¬ 
bingers 

Of sunny skies and cloudless times, en¬ 
joy 

Life’s newness, and earth’s garniture 
spread out; 

And when the silver habit of the clouds 

Comes down upon the autumn sun, and 
with 


A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 

A pomp and pageant fill the splendid 
scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing 
now 

Its mellow richness on the clustered 
trees, 

And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared 
clouds. 
































WOODS IN WINTER. 


13 


Morn on the mountain, like a summer 
bird, 

Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 

The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate 
wooer, 

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 

Within the solemn woods of ash deep- 
crimsoned, 

And silver beech, and maple yellow¬ 
leaved, 

Where Autumn, like a faint old man, 
sits down 

By the wayside a-weary. Through the 
trees 

The golden robin moves. The purple 
finch, 

That on wild-cherry and red-cedar feeds, 

A winter bird, comes with its plaintive 
whistle, 

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst 
aloud 



WOODS IN WINTER. 


When winter winds are piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows the 
gale, 


From cottage roofs the warbling blue¬ 
bird sings, 

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 

Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy 
flail. 

O what a glory doth this world put on 

For him who, with a fervent heart, goes 
forth 

Under the bright and glorious sky, and 
looks 

On duties well performed, and days well 
spent! 

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow 
leaves, 

Shall have a voice, and give him elo¬ 
quent teachings. 

He shall so hear the solemn hymn that 
Death 

Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 

To his long resting-place without a tear. 



With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 


O’er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods. 











14 EARLIER POEMS. 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 

When the battle’s distant wail 

And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 

When the clarion’s music thrills 

To the hearts of these lone hills, 

The summer vine in beauty clung, 

When the spear in conflict shakes, 

And summer winds the stillness broke, 

And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

The crystal icicle is hung. 



“ Take thy banner ! and, beneath 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute 

The battle-cloud’s encircling wreath, 

springs 

Guard it, till our homes are free ! 

Pour out the river’s gradual tide, 

Guard it! God will prosper thee ! 

Shrilly the skater’s iron rings, 

In the dark and trying hour, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

In the breaking forth of power, 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 

In the rush of steeds and men, 

His right hand will shield thee then. 

When birds sang out their mellow 


lay, 

“ Take thy banner ! But when night 

And winds were soft, and woods were 

Closes round the ghastly fight, 

green, 

If the vanquished warrior bow, 

And the song ceased not with the day ! 

Spare him ! By our holy vow, 

But still wild music is abroad, 

By our prayers and many tears, 

By the mercy that endears, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your 

Spare him ! he our love hath shared ! 

crowd ; 

Spare him ! as thou wouldst be spared ! 

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 


Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

“ Take thy banner ! and if e’er 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 

Thou shouldst press the soldier’s bier, 

And the muffled drum should beat 

Has grown familiar with your song ; 

To the tread of mournful feet, 

I hear it in the opening year, 

Then this crimson flag shall be 

I listen, and it cheers me long. 

Martial cloak and shroud for thee.” 

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN 

The warrior took that banner proud, 

And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 

NUNS OF BETHLEHEM. 


AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI’S 

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 

BANNER. 


When the dying flame of day 

I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s 
wide arch 

Through the chancel shot its ray, 

Was glorious with the sun’s returning 

Far the glimmering tapers shed 

march, 

Faint light on the cowled head ; 

And woods were brightened, and soft gales 

And the censer burning swung, 

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 

Where, before the altar, hung 

The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed 

The crimson banner, that with prayer 

in light, 

Had been consecrated there. 

They gathered midway round the wooded 

And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard 

height, 

the while, 

And, in their fading glory, shone 

Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

Like hosts in battle overthrown, 

“ Take thy banner ! May it wave 

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, 
Through the gray mist thrust up its shat- 

Proudly o’er the good and brave ; 

tered lance, 







THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 



And rocking on the cliff was left 
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river’s 
flow 

Was darkened by the forest’s shade, 

Or glistened in the white cascade ; 

Where upward, in the mellow blush of 
day, 

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 

I saw the current whirl and flash, 

And richly, by the blue lake’s silver 
beach, 

The woods were bending with a silent 
reach. 

Then o’er the vale, with gentle swell, 

The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the 
woodland fills, 

Was ringing to the merry shout, 

That faint and far the glen sent out, 


Where, answering to the sudden shot, 
thin smoke, 

Through thick-leaved branches, from the 
dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will 
keep 

Thy heart from fainting and thy soul 
from sleep, 

Go to the woods and hills ! No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 


THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 

That dwells where’er the gentle south- 
wind blows ; 

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in 
the glade, 

The wild-flowers bloom, or, kissing the 
soft air, 









i6 


EARLIER ROE MS. 




The leaves above their sunny palms out¬ 
spread. 

With what a tender and impassioned 
voice « 

It fills the nice and delicate ear of 
thought, 

When the fast ushering star of morning 
comes 

O’er-riding the gray hills with golden 
scarf; 

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled 
Eve, 

In mourning weeds, from out the western 
gate, 

Departs with silent pace ! That spirit 
moves 

In the green valley, where the silver 


From its full laver, pours the white cas¬ 
cade ; 

And, babbling low amid the tangled 
woods, 

Slips down through moss-grown stones 
with endless laughter. 

And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 

In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And 
here, amid 

The silent majesty of these deep woods, 

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts 
from earth, 

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright 


air 


Their tops the green 
gifted bards 


trees lift. Hence 


brook, 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 

For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, 

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, 

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, 
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 

The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, 

In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it, 





































BURIAL OF THE MINN IS INK. 


17 


As a bright image of the light and beauty 

That dwell in nature; of the heavenly 
forms 

We worship in our dreams, and the soft 
hues 

That stain the wild-bird’s wing, and flush 
the clouds 

When the sun sets. Within her tender eye 

The heaven of April, with its changing 
light, 

And when it wears the blue of May, is 
hung, 

And, on her lip the rich, red rose. Her 
hair 


Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 
When twilight makes them brown, and 
on her cheek 

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her 
breath, 

It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 

As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it 
comes 

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird, 
Heard in the still night, with its passion¬ 
ate cadence. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 

The shadowed light of evening fell; 

And, where the maple’s leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down, 
The glory, that the wood receives, 

At sunset, in its golden leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 


Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening shone ; 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian’s soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 


2 















i8 


EARLIER POEMS. 


They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior’s head ; 

But, as the summer fruit decays, 

So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 


With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial 
dress, 

Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 

With darting eye, and nostril spread, 

And heavy and impatient tread, 

He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief ; they 
freed 

Beside the grave his battle steed ; 

And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man’s plain, 

The rider grasps his steed again. 







TRANSLATIONS. 

[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth cen¬ 
tury. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his History of 
Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ucles ; and speaks of him as “ a 
youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; and was 
thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which 
was already known to fame.” He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near CaTiavete, in the year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is 
well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 ; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles; 
but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which 
rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, “ Don Jorge Man¬ 
rique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, 
mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn.” This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a 
model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on, 
— calm, dignified, and majestic.] 


COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

O let the soul her slumbers break, 

Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 

Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 

The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past, 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps, 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 

And, did we judge of time aright, 

The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again, 

That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that’s told, 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 


Thither the mighty torrents stray, 

Thither the brook pursues its way, 

And tinkling rill. 

There all are equal; side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

I will not here invoke the throng 
Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves, 
Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arise, 

The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, 
To Him I cry, 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 
But the world comprehended not 
His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way, 

Which leads no traveller’s foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place, 

Life is the running of the race, 

We reach the goal 
When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought, 

This world would school each wandering 
thought 





2 o TRA A T SL A TIO NS. 


To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 

Up to that better world on high, 

For which we wait. 

Yes, the glad messenger of love, 

To guide us to our home above, 

The Saviour came ; 

Born amid mortal cares and fears, 

He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth, 

The shapes we chase, 

Amid a world of treachery ! 

They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 

And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, chances 
strange, 

Disastrous accident, and change, 

That come to all; 

Even in the most exalted state, 

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest fall. 

Tell me, the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 

The hues that play 

O’er rosy lip and brow of snow, 

When hoary age approaches slow, 

Ah, where are they ? 

The cunning skill, the curious arts, 

The glorious strength that youth im¬ 
parts 

In life’s first stage ; 

These shall become a heavy weight, 
When Time swings wide his outward 
gate 

To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 

Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 

In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 

The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 

Shall rise no more ; 


Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain, 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high estate of pride, 

With what untimely speed they glide, 
How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they, 

Of fickle heart. 

These gifts in Fortune’s hands are 
found ; 

Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 

No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
But changing, and without repose, 

Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded bawbles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 

Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 

Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 

And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 
Are passions springing from the dust, 
They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb, 

They seal the immortal spirit’s doom 
Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life’s serious task, 
What are they, all, 

But the fleet coursers of the chase, 

And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall ? 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay, but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 

And, when the fatal snare is near, 

We strive to check our mad career, 

But strive in vain. 

Could we new charms to age impart, 

And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 

And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace, 








CO PL AS DE 

MANRIQUE. 21 

How busily each passing hour 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 

Should we exert that magic power, 

To kneel, and breathe love’s ardent 

What ardor show, 

flame, 

To deck the sensual slave of sin, 

Low at their feet ? 

Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 

In weeds of woe ! 

Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Famous in history and in song 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

Of olden time, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 

The dancers wore ? 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 

Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 

Henry, whose royal court displayed 

Such power and pride ; 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 

0, in what winning smiles arrayed, 

On these shall fall 

The world its various pleasures laid 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

His throne beside ! 

As when it stays the shepherd’s breath 
Beside his stall. 

But 0 how false and full of guile 

I speak not of the Trojan name, 

That world, which wore so soft a smile 

But to betray ! 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

She, that had been his friend before, 

Has met our eyes ; 

Now from the fated monarch tore 

Nor of Rome’s great and glorious dead, 

Her charms away. 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 
Their histories. 

The countless gifts, the stately walls, 

Little avails it now to know 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold ; 

Of ages passed so long ago, 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 

Nor how they rolled ; 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Our theme shall be of yesterday, 

Of wealth untold ; 

Which to oblivion sweeps away, 

Like days of old. 

The noble steeds, and harness bright, 

Where is the King, Don Juan ? Where 

And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 

In rich array, 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 

Of Aragon ? 

Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 

They passed away. 

The deeds of love and high emprise, 

In battle done ? 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 

Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 

Unskilled to reign ; 

And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 

What a gay, brilliant court had he, 

And nodding plume, 

When all the flower of chivalry 

What were they but a pageant scene ? 

Was in his train ! 

What but the garlands, gay and green, 

That deck the tomb ? 

But he was mortal; and the breath, 

Where are the high-born dames, and 

That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 
Blasted his years ; 

where 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 

Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 

When raging fierce and fearfully, 

And odors sweet ? 

Was quenched in tears ! 






22 


TRAN SLA T10NS. 


Spain’s haughty Constable, the true 
And gallant Master, whom we knew 
Most loved of all ; 

Breathe not a whisper of his pride, 

He on the gloomy scaffold died, 

Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care, 

His villages and villas fair, 

His mighty power, 

What were they all but grief and shame, 
Tears and a broken heart, when came 
The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 

Might rival kings ; 

Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 

What was their prosperous estate, 

When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 

What, but a transient gleam of light, 

A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died ? 

So many a duke of royal name, 

Marquis and count of spotless fame, 

And baron brave, 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 

In peaceful days, or war’s alarms, 

When thou dost show, 

O Death, thy stern and angry face, 

One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 

And flag displayed ; 

High battlements intrenched around, 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade, 

And covered trench, secure and deep, 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death, from thee, 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 


And thy strong shafts pursue their path 
Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 

Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

Our days are covered o’er with grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 

And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 

Or dark despair ; 

Midway so many toils appear, 

That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

Thy goods are bought with many a 
groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs. 

And he, the good man’s shield and 
shade, 

To whom all hearts their homage paid, 

As Virtue’s son, 

Roderic Manrique, he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 

Spain’s champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 
Demand no pompous eulogy, 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung ? 
The name, that dwells on every tongue, 
No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend ; how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief! 

To foes how stern a foe was he ! 

And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief! 








CO PL AS DE 

MANR/QUE . 23 

What prudence with the old and wise : 

Brothers and bondsmen of his power 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

His hand sustained. 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

After high deeds, not left untold, 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

In the stern warfare, which of old 

A lion’s rage. 

’T was his to share, 

His was Octavian’s prosperous star, 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 

And fairer regions, than before, 

The rush of Caesar’s conquering car 

His guerdon were. 

At battle’s call ; 

His, Scipio’s virtue ; his, the skill 

These are the records, half effaced, 

And the indomitable will 

Which, with the hand of youth, he 

Of Hannibal. 

traced 

His was a Trajan’s goodness, his 

On history’s page ; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

A Titus’ noble charities 

Each fading character anew 

And righteous laws ; 

In his old age. 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 

In truth’s just cause ; 

And veteran service to the state, 

The clemency of Antonine, 

By worth adored, 

He stood, in his high dignity, 

Aurelius’ countenance divine, 

The proudest knight of chivalry, 

Firm, gentle, still; 

Knight of the Sword. 

The eloquence of Adrian, 

And Theodosius’ love to man, 

He found his cities and domains 

And generous will ; 

Beneath a tyrant’s galling chains 

In tented field and bloody fray, 

And cruel power ; 

But, by fierce battle and blockade, 

An Alexander’s vigorous sway 

Soon his own banner was displayed 

And stern command; 

From every tower. 

The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 

The fervent love Camillus bore 

By the tried valor of his hand, 

His native land. 

His monarch and his native land 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

Were nobly served; 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

And proud Castile, who shared the 

Nor massive plate ; 

glory 

He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, 

His arms deserved. 

City and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe, 

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down ; 

Brave steeds and gallant riders found 

When he had served, with patriot zeal, 

A common grave; 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

And there the warrior’s hand did gain 

His sovereign’s crown; 

The rents, and the long vassal train, 

That conquest gave. 

And done such deeds of valor strong, 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 

That neither history nor song 

Can count them all; 

The honored and exalted grade 

Then, on Ocana’s castled rock, 

His worth had gained, 

Death at his portal came to knock, 

So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 

With sudden call, 








TRANS LA 770NS. 


24 


Saying, “ Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armor for the fray, 

The closing scene. 

“ Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 

So prodigal of health and life, 

For earthly fame, 

Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 

Loud on the last stern battle-plain 
They call thy name. 

“ Think not the struggle that draws near 
Too terrible for man, nor fear 
To meet the foe ; 

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 

Its life of glorious fame to leave 
On earth below. 

“ A life of honor and of worth 
Has no eternity on earth, 

’T is but a name ; 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life, which leads 

To want and shame. 

“ The eternal life, beyond the sky, 

Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 

The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 

“But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 

His prayers and tears ; 

And the brave knight, whose arm endures 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 
His standard rears. 

“And thou, brave knight, whose hand 
has poured 

The life-blood of the Pagan horde 
O’er all the land, 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 


“ Cheered onward by this promise sure, 
Strong in the faith entire and pure 
Thou dost profess, 

Depart, thy hope is certainty, 

The third, the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess.” 

“ O Death, no more, no more delay; 

My spirit longs to flee away, 

And be at rest ; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be, 

I bow to the divine decree, 

To God’s behest. 

“ My soul is ready to depart, 

No thought rebels, the obedient heart 
Breathes forth no sigh ; 

The wish on earth to linger still 
Were vain, when ’t is God’s sovereign 
will 

That we shall die. 

“ O thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 

Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

“ And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 

So patiently; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 

And not for merits of my own, 

O, pardon me ! ” 

As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind ; 

Encircled by his family, 

Watched by affection’s gentle eye 
So soft and kind ; 

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; 

God lead it to its long repose, 

Its glorious rest ! 

And, though the warrior’s sun has set, 

Its light shall linger round us yet, 

Bright, radiant, blest. 









THE IMAGE OF GOD. 25 

THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

And, 0 ! how often to that voice of sor- 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

row, 

“ To-morrow we will open,” I replied, 

Shepherd ! who with thine amorous, 

And when the morrow came I answered 
still, 

sylvan song 

“ To-morrow.” 

Hast broken the slumber that encom¬ 
passed me, 


Who mad’st thy crook from the ac- 

THE NATIVE LAND. 

cursed tree, 


On which thy powerful arms were 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE 

stretched so long ! 

ALDAN A. 

Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing foun- 


tains ; 

Clear fount of light ! my native land on 

For thou my shepherd, guard, and 

high, 

guide shalt be ; 

Bright with a glory that shall never 

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 

fade ! 

Thy feet all beautiful upon the moun- 

Mansion of truth ! without a veil or 

tains. 

shade, 

Hear, Shepherd ! thou who for thy flock 

Thy holy quiet meets the spirit’s eye. 

art dying, 

There dwells the soul in its ethereal es- 

O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 

sence, 

Rejoicest at the contrite sinner’s vow. 

Gasping no longer for life’s feeble 

0 , wait! to thee my weary soul is crying, 

breath ; 

Wait for me ! Yet why ask it, when I 

But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious 

see, 

presence 

With feet nailed to the cross, thou’rt 

With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, 

waiting still for me ! 

death. 


Beloved country! banished from thy 

TO-MORROW. 

shore, 

A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for 
thee ! 

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing 

Heavenward the bright perfections I 
adore 

care, 

Direct, and the sure promise cheers 

Thou didst seek after me, that thou 

the way, 

didst wait, 

That, whither love aspires, there shall 

Wet with unhealthy dews, before my 

my dwelling be. 

gate, 

And pass the gloomy nights of winter 


there ? 

THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

0 strange delusion ! that I did not greet 


Thy blest approach, and 0, to Heaven 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE 

how lost, 

ALDANA. 

If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost 


Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon 

0 Lord ! who seest, from yon starry 

thy feet. 

height, 

How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

Centred in one the future and the past, 

“ Soul, from thy casement look, and 

Fashioned in thine own image, see how 

thou shalt see 

fast 

How he persists to knock and wait for 

The world obscures in me what once was 

thee ! ” 

bright! 








26 


TRANSLA TIONS. 


Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou 
hast given, 

To cheer life’s flowery April, fast de¬ 
cays ; 

Yet, in the hoary winter of my clays, 
Forever green shall be my trust in 
Heaven. 

Celestial King ! O let thy presence pass 


Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from on 
high, 

As the reflected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks 
it there, 

And owes its being to the gazer’s 
eye. 



THE BROOK. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Laugh of the mountain! — lyre of bird 
and tree ! 

Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the 
morn ! 

The soul of April, unto whom are 
born 

The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in 
thee ! 

Although, where’er thy devious current 
strays, 

The lap of earth with gold and silver 
teems, 

To me thy clear proceeding brighter 
seems 

Than golden sands, that charm each 
shepherd’s gaze. 

How without guile thy bosom, all trans¬ 
parent 

As the pure crystal, lets the curious 
eye 


Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round 
pebbles count! 

How, without malice murmuring, glides 
thy current ! 

O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 

I hou shun’st the haunts of man, to 
dwell in limpid fount ! 


THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of 
morning, 

Through the gross vapors, Mars grows 
fiery red 

Down in the west upon the ocean 
floor, 

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it! 

A light along the sea, so swiftly com¬ 
ing, 

Its motion by no flight of wing is 
equalled. 






































THE TERRESTRIAL TARA RISE. 27 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a 

With wh’atso in that Psalm is after 

little 

written. 

Mine eyes, that I might question my 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon 

conductor, 

them, 

Again I saw it brighter grown and 

Whereat all cast themselves upon the 

larger. 

shore, 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

And he departed swiftly as he came. 

I knew not what of white, and under¬ 
neath, 


Little by little, there came forth an- 

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 

other. 


My master yet had uttered not a word, 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 

While the first whiteness into wings 


unfolded ; 

Longing already to search in and round 

But, when he clearly recognized the 

The heavenly forest, dense and living- 

pilot, 

green, 

He cried aloud : “ Quick, quick, and 

Which tempered to the eyes the new- 

bow the knee ! 

born day, * 

Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy 

Withouten more delay I left the bank, 

hands ! 

Crossing the level country slowly, 

Henceforward shalt thou see such 

slowly, 

officers ! 

Over the soil, that everywhere breathed 

See, how he scorns all human argu- 

fragrance. 

ments, 

A gently-breathing air, that no muta- 

So that no oar he wants, nor other 

tion 

sail 

Had in itself, smote me upon the fore- 

Than his own wings, between so dis- 

head, 

tant shores ! 

No heavier blow, than of a pleasant 

See, how he holds them, pointed straight 

breeze, 

to heaven, 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Fanning the air with the eternal pin- 

Did all of them bow downward to- 

ions, 

wards that side 

That do not moult themselves like 

Where its first shadow casts the Holy 

mortal hair ! ” 

Mountain ; 

And then, as nearer and more near us 

Yet not from their upright direction 

came 

bent 

The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he 

So that the little birds upon their 

appeared, 

tops 

So that the eye could not sustain his 

Should cease the practice of their tune- 

presence, 

ful art; 

But down I cast it; and 'he came to 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of 

shore 

prime 

With a small vessel, gliding swift and 

Singing received they in the midst of 

light, 

foliage 

So that the water swallowed naught 

That made monotonous burden to 

thereof. 

their rhymes, 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! 

Even as from branch to branch it gather- 

Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 

ing swells, 

And more than a hundred spirits sat 

Through the pine forests on the shore 

within. 

of Chiassi, 

“ In exitu Israel de AEgyplo ! ” 

When HloIus unlooses the Sirocco. 

Thus sang they all together in one 

Alreadv my slow steps had led me on 

voice, 

Into the ancient wood so far, that I 








28 TRA NS LA TIO NS. 

Could see no more the place where I 

And down descended inside and with- 

had entered. 

out, 

And lo! my further course cut off a 

With crown of olive o’er a snow-white 

river, 

veil, 

Which, tow’rds the left hand, with its 

Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 

little waves, 

Vested in colors of the living flame. 

Bent down the grass, that on its mar- 

Even as the snow, among the living 

gin sprang. 

All waters that on earth most limpid 

rafters 

are, 

Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 

Would seem to have within them- 

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian 

selves some mixture, 

winds, 

Compared with that, which nothing 

And then, dissolving, filters through it- 

doth conceal, 

self, 

Although it moves on with a brown, 

Whene’er the land, that loses shadow, 

brown current, 

breathes, 

Under the shade perpetual, that never 

Like as a taper melts before a fire, 

Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. „ 

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, 

Before the song of those who chime 
forever 

BEATRICE. 

After the chiming of the eternal 
spheres ; 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 

But, when I heard in those sweet melo¬ 
dies 

Even, as the Blessed, at the final sum- 

Compassion for me, more than had 

mons, 

they said, 

Shall rise up quickened, each one 

“ 0 wherefore, lady, dost thou thus 

from his grave, 

consume him ? ” 

Wearing again the garments of the 

The ice, that was about my heart con- 

flesh, 

gealed, 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 

To air and water changed, and, in my 

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 

anguish, 

Ministers and messengers of life eter- 

Through lips and eyes came gushing 

nal. 

from my breast. 

They all were saying, “ Bencdictus qui 

• 

vents,” 

Confusion and dismay, together min- 

And scattering flowers above and 

gled, 

round about, 

Forced such a feeble “Yes!” out of 

“ Manibus o date lilia plenis.” 

my mouth, 

Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, 

To understand it one had need of 

The orient sky all stained with roseate 

sight. 

hues, 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when ’t is 

And the other heaven with light serene 

discharged, 

adorned, 

Too tensely drawn the bow-string, and 

And the sun’s face uprising, overshad- 

the bow, 

owed, 

And with less force the arrow hits the 

So that, by temperate influence of 

mark ; 

vapors, 

So I gave way beneath this heavy bur- 

The eye sustained his aspect for long 

den, 

while ; 

Gushing forth into bitter tears and 

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, 

sighs, 

Which from those hands angelic were 

And the voice, fainting, flagged upon 

thrown up, 

its passage. 









THE GRA VE. 29 

SPRING. 

Sleep, little one; and closely, gently 
place 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D’OR- 

Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s 

LEANS. 

breast. 

XV. CENTURY. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not 

Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad, 

to me ! 

Well dost thou thy power display ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, de- 

For Winter maketh the light heart sad, 

fend; 

And thou, thou makest the sad heart 

’T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for 

gay. 

lie sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 

thee! 

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his 

and the rain ; 

brow ; 

And they shrink away, and they flee in 

His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor 

fear, 

dreams of harm. 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy 
glow, 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so 

Would you not say he slept on Death’s 

old, 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 

cold arm ? 

And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 

Awake, my boy ! I tremble with af- 

We must cower over the embers low ; 

fright! 

And, snugly housed from the wind and 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! 

weather, 

Unclose 

Mope like birds that are changing feather. 

Thine eye but for one moment on the 

But the storm retires, and the sky grows 

light ! 

clear, 

Even at the price of thine, give me 

When thy merry step draws near. 

repose ! 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy 

Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe 

sky 

again ; 

Wrap him round with a mantle of 

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep 

cloud; 

beguile ! 

But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 

0 , when shall he, for whom I sigh in 

Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 

vain, 

And the earth looks bright, and Winter 

Beside me watch to see thy waking 

surly, 

Who has toiled for naught both late and 
early, 

smile ? 

Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
When thy merry step draws near. 

THE GRAVE. 

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

For thee was a house built 

Ere thou wast born, 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

For thee was a mould meant 

Ere thou of mother earnest. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father’s 

But it is not made ready, 

face, 

Nor its depth measured, 

Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have 

Nor is it seen 

pressed ! 

How long it shall be. 








3 ° 


TRANSLA TIONS. 



Now I bring thee . 

Where thou shalt be ; 

Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 

It is unhigh and low ; 

When thou art therein, 

The heel-ways are low ; 

The side-ways unhigh. 

The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh, 

So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 

Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house, 

And dark it is within ; 

There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 

And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 

And leavest thy friends ; 

Thou hast no friend, 

Who will come to thee, 

Who will ever see 

How that house pleaseth thee ; 


Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 

And descend after thee ; 

For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 


KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. 

FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES 
EVALD. 

King Christian stood by the lofty 
mast 

In mist and smoke ; 

His sword was hammering so fast, 

1 hrough Gothic helm and brain it 
passed ; 

1 hen sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 

“ Fly ! ” shouted they, “ fly, he who 
can ! 

Who braves of Denmark’s Christian 
The stroke ? ” 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest’s 
roar, 

Now is the hour ! 

He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore, 











THE DEAD. 31 

And shouted loud, through the tempest’s 

“ Ha ! ” cried a Saxon, laughing, 

roar, 

And dashed his beard with wine ; 

“ Now is the hour ! ” 

“ I had rather live in Lapland, 

“ Fly ! ” shouted they, “ for shelter fly ! 

Of Denmark’s Juel who can defy 

Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

The power ? ” 

“ The goodliest land on all this earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

There have I as many maidens 

Thy murky sky ! 

Then champions to thine arms were 

As fingers on this hand ! ” 

sent ; 

“ Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and 

Terror and Death glared where he went ; 

Saxon ! ” 

From the waves was heard a wail, that 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 

rent 

“ If there’s a heaven upon this earth 

Thy murky sky ! 

From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol’, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 

“ There the tailor blows the flute, 

And fly ! 

And the cobbler blows the horn, 

And the miner blows the bugle, 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Over mountain gorge and bourn.” 

Dark-rolling wave ! 

*•••••• 

Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 

And then the landlord’s daughter 

Goes to meet danger with despite, 

Up to heaven raised her hand, 

Proudly as thou the tempest’s might, 

And said, “ Ye may no more contend, — 

Dark-rolling wave ! 

And amid pleasures and alarms, 

And war and victory, be thine arms 

There lies the happiest land ! ” 

My grave ! 

THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

THE WAVE. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 

“ Whither, thou turbid wave ? 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

There sat one day in quiet, 

Whither, with so much haste, 

As if a thief wert thou ? ” 

By an alehouse on the Rhine, 

“ I am the Wave of Life, 

Four hale and hearty fellows, 

Stained with my margin’s dust; 

And drank the precious wine. 

From the struggle and the strife 

Of the narrow stream I fly 

The landlord’s daughter filled their cups, 

To the Sea’s immensity, 

Around the rustic board ; 

To wash from me the slime 

Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

Of the muddy banks of Time.” 

; 

But, when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand, 

THE DEAD. 

And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

“ Long live the Swabian land ! 

FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMANN. 

How they so softly rest, 

“ The greatest kingdom upon earth 

All they the holy ones, 

Cannot with that compare ; 

Unto whose dwelling-place 

With all the stout and hardy men 

Now doth my soul draw near ! 

And the nut-brown maidens there.” 

How they so softly rest, 









3 2 


TRANSLA TIONS. 


All in their silent graves, 

Deep to corruption 
Slowly down-sinking! 

And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still ! 


And they no longer feel, 

Here, where all gladness flies ! 
And, by the cypresses 
Softly o’ershadowed, 

Until the Angel 

Calls them, they slumber ! . 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

“ The rivers rush into the sea, 

By castle and town they go ; 

The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 

“ The clouds are passing far and high, 
We little birds in them play ; 

And everything, that can sing and fly, 
Goes with us, and far away. 

“ I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or 
whence, 

With thy fluttering golden band ? ” — 

“ I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide 
sea 

I haste from the narrow land. 

“ Full and swollen is every sail; 

I see no longer a hill, 


I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 
And it will not let me stand still. 

“ And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 
With merry companions all.” — 

“ I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

“ High over the sails, high over the mast, 
Who shall gainsay these joys ? 

When thy merry companions are still,' at 
last, 

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 

“ Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 
God bless them every one ! 

I dart away, in the bright blue day, 

And the golden fields of the sun. 





























SONG OF THE BELL. 33 

“ Thus do I sing my weary song, , 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Wherever the four winds blow ; 

Take care! 

And this same song, my whole life long, 

She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Neither Poet nor Printer may know.” 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 

She is fooling thee ! 

WHITHER ? 



And she has hair of a golden hue, 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

Take care ! 

• 

And what she says, it is not true, 

I heard a brooklet gushing 

Beware ! Beware ! 

From its rocky fountain near, 

Trust her not, 

Down into the valley rushing, 

She is fooling thee ! 

So fresh and wondrous clear. 



She has a bosom as white as snow, 

I know not what came o’er me, 

Take care ! 

Nor who the counsel gave ; 

She knows how much it is best to show. 

But I must hasten downward, 

Beware! Beware ! 

All with my pilgrim-stave ; 

Trust her not, 

She is fooling thee! , 

Downward, and ever farther, 


And ever the brook beside ; 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

And ever fresher murmured, 

Take care ! 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Is this the way I was going ? 

Trust her not, 

Whither, 0 brooklet, say ! 

She is fooling thee ! 

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 
Murmured my senses away. 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

What do I say of a murmur ? 


That can no murmur be ; 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

’T is the water-nymphs, that are sing- 


ing 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 

Their roundelays under me. 

When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 

Let them sing, my friend, let them mur- 

Bell! thou soundest solemnly, 

mur, 

When, on Sabbath morning, 

And wander merrily near ; 

Fields deserted lie ! 

The wheels of a mill are going 


In every brooklet clear. 

Bell! thou soundest merrily ; 

Tellest thou at evening, 

Bedtime draweth nigh ! 

BEWARE ! 

Bell! thou soundest mournfully, 

Tellest thou the bitter 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Parting hath gone by ! 

I know a maiden fair to see, 

Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 

Take care ! 

How canst thou rejoice ? 

She can both false and friendly be, 

Thou art but metal dull! 

Beware ! Beware ! 

And yet all our sorrowings, 

Trust her not, 

And all our rejoicings, 

She is fooling thee ! 

3 

Thou dost feel them all! 








TRANSLA TIONS. 


34 


God hath wonders many, 

Which we cannot fathom, 

Placed within thy form ! 

When the heart is sinking, 

Thou alone canst raise it, 

Trembling in the storm ! 

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

“ Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That Castle by the Sea ? 

Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 

“ And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 

And fain it would soar, upward 
In the evening’s crimson glow.” 

“ Well have I seen that castle, 

That Castle by the Sea, 

And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rise solemnly.” 

“ The winds and the waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime ? 

Didst thou, hear, from those lofty cham¬ 
bers, 

The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme ? ” 

“ The winds and the waves of ocean, 
They rested quietly, 

But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 
And tears came to mine eye.” 

“ And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride ? 

And the wave of their crimson man¬ 
tles ? 

And the golden crown of pride ? 

u Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there ? 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair ? ” 

“ Well saw I the ancient parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 
No maiden was by their side ! ” 


THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UFI LAND. 

’T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all sadness. 

Thus began the King and spake : 

“ So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg’s walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break.” 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 

Wave the crimson banners proudly, 

From balcony the King looked on ; 

In the play of spears. 

Fell all the cavaliers, 

Before the monarch’s stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 

“ Sir Knight! your name and scutch¬ 
eon, say ! ” 

“ Should I speak it here, 

Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 

I am a Prince of mighty sway! ” 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 
And the castle ’gan to rock; 

At the first blow, 

Fell the youth from the saddle-bow, 
Hardly rises from the shock ; 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 

Torch-light through the high halls glances, 
Waves a mighty shadow in ; 

With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden’s hand, 

Doth with her the dance begin ; 

Danced in sable iron sark, 

Danced a measure weird and dark, 

Coldly clasped her limbs around ; 

From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame ; 

’Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 









L? ENVOI. 


35 


Pale the children both did look, 

But the guest a beaker took : 

“ Golden wine will make you whole ! ” 
The children drank, 

Gave many a courteous thank : 

“ O, that draught was very cool ! ” 

Each the father’s breast embraces, 

Son and daughter; and their faces 
Colorless grow utterly; 

Whichever way 

Looks the fear-struck father gray, 

He beholds his children die. 

“ Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! ” 
Spake the grim Guest, 

From his hollow, cavernous breast: 

“ Roses in the spring I gather! ” 

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah 1 who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly 
gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the 
strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O thither, 

Into the Silent Land ? 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 
Of all perfection ! Tender morning visions 
Of beauteous souls! The Future’s 
pledge and band ! 


Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand, 
Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms 
Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 
The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth 
stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 
To the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 


L’ENVOI. 

Ye voices, that arose 
After the Evening’s close, 

And whispered to my restless heart re¬ 
pose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 
Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, “ Be of good cheer ! ” 

Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 
Seemed to me like an angel’s psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! 

Tongues of the dead, not lost, 

But speaking from death’s frost, 

Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 

Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death en¬ 
camps ! 
























BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

“ Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 

Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 

But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ? ” 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 

As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December ; 

And, like the water’s flow 
Under December’s snow, 

Came a dull voice of woe 
From the heart’s chamber. 

“ I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 

No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 

Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 

Else dread a dead man’s curse ; 

For this I sought thee. 

“ Far in the Northern Land, 

By the wild Baltic’s strand, 


I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the gerfalcon ; 

And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 
Trembled to walk on. 

“ Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 

While from my path the hare 
Fled like a shadow ; 

Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf’s bark, 
Until the soaring lark 
Sang from the meadow. 

“ But when I older grew, 

Joining a corsair’s crew, 

O’er the dark sea I flew 
With the marauders. 

Wild was the life we led ; 

Many the souls that sped, 

Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

“ Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing, 

As we the Berserk’s tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 











THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


37 


•Draining the oaken pail, 

When of old Hildebrand 

Filled to o’erflowing. 

I asked his daughter’s hand, 


Mute did the minstrels stand 

“ Once as I told in glee 

Tales of the stormy sea, 

To hear my story. 

Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

“ While the brown ale he quaffed, 

Burning yet tender ; 

Loud then the champion laughed, 

And as the white stars shine 

And as the wind-gusts waft 

On the dark Norway pine, 

The sea-foam brightly, 



On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 

“ I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 

And in the forest’s shade 
Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 

Like birds within their nest 
By the hawk frighted. 

“ Bright in her father’s hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 
Chanting his glory ; 


So the loud laugh of scorn, 

Out of those lips unshorn, 

From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

“ She was a Prince’s child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 
I was discarded ! 

Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew’s flight, 

Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded ? 

“ Scarce had I put to sea, 

Bearing the maid with me, — 































i 




BALLADS AND OTHER POE MS. 


Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! — 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 

Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

“ Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 

Yet we were gaining fast, 


When the wind failed us ; 

And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 

So that our foe we saw 
Laugh as he hailed us. 

“ And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman’s hail, 
Death without quarter ! 
Midships with iron keel 


Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

“ Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o’er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to leeward; 

There for my lady’s bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 

Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking seaward. 


Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water ! 


“ As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 
With his prey laden, 

So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 


































THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 39 


“ There lived we many years ; 

In the vast forest here, 

Time dried the maiden’s tears ; 

Clad in my warlike gear, 

She had forgot her fears, 

Fell I upon my spear, 

She was a mother ; 

0 , death was grateful ! 

Death closed her mild blue eyes, 

Under that tower she lies ; 

“ Thus, seamed with many scars 

Ne’er shall the sun arise 

Bursting these prison bars, 

On such another ! 

Up to its native stars 

“ Still grew my bosom then, 

My soul ascended ! 

There from the flowing bowl 

Still as a stagnant fen ! 

Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, 

Hateful to me were men, 

Skoal! to the Northland ! skoal l ” 

The sunlight hateful! 

Thus the tale ended. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPE¬ 
RUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 

And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter 

To bear him company. 


Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn 
buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
His pipe was in his mouth, 

























40 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 


And he watched how the veering flaw 
did blow 

The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

“ I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

“ Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see ! ” 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his 
pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 


For I can weather the roughest gale 
That ever wind did blow.” 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s 
coat 

Against the stinging blast; 

He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

“ O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 
O say, what may it be ? ” 

“ ’T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound 
coast! ” — 

And he steered for the open sea. 



Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast, 

The snow fell hissing in the brine,- 
And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 
The vessel in its strength ; 

She shuddered and paused, like a fright¬ 
ed steed, 

Then leaped her cable’s length. 

“Come hither! come hither! my little 
daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 


“ O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be ? ” 

“ Some ship in distress, that cannot 
live 

In such an angry sea ! ” 

“ O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ? ” 

But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and 
stark, 

With his face turned to the skies, 








THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 


41 


The lantern gleamed through the gleam¬ 
ing snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and 
prayed 

That saved she might be ; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled 
the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and 
snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf, 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the crew 
Like icicles from her deck. 


She struck where the white and fleecy 
waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and 
sank, 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
The salt tears in her eyes ; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea¬ 
weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ! 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman’s Woe ! 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call; 

He rises at the banquet board, 

And cries, ’mid the drunken revellers all, 
“ Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall! ” 


The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house’s oldest seneschal, 

Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking-glass of crystal tall; 

They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord: “This glass to 
praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal! ” 















42 BALLADS AND 

OTIfER POEMS. 

The graybeard with trembling hand 

Glass is this earth’s Luck and Pride ; 

obeys; 

In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 

A purple light shines over all, 

One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! ” 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

- 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light: 

THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

“ This glass of flashing crystal tall 

Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; 

FROM THE DANISH. 

She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, 

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 

Farewell then, 0 Luck of Edenhall! 

“ ’T was right a goblet the Fate should be 

Full seven miles broad and seven miles 
wide, 

Of the joyous race of Edenhall! 

But never, ah never can meet with the 

Deep draughts drink we right willingly; 

man 

And willingly ring, with merry call, 

A tilt with him dare ride. 

Kling! klang ! to the Luck of Eden- 


hall ! ” 

He saw under the hillside 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 

A Knight full well equipped ; 

His steed was black, his helm was 

Like to the song of a nightingale ; 

barred ; 

Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 

He was riding at full speed. 

Then mutters at last like the thunder’s 
fall, 

He wore upon his spurs 

The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

Twelve little golden birds ; 

“ For its keeper takes a race of might, 

Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 

The fragile goblet of crystal tall; 

It has lasted longer than is right; 

He wore upon his mail 

Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than 

Twelve little golden wheels ; 

all 

Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

Will I try the Luck of Edenhall! ” 

And round and round the wheels they 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 

Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; 

flew. 

He wore before his breast 

And through the rift, the wild flames start; 

A lance that was poised in rest; 

The guests in dust are scattered all, 

And it was sharper than diamond-stone, 

With the breaking Luck of Edenhall! 

It made Sir Oluf’s heart to groan. 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword; 

He wore upon his helm 

He in the night had scaled the wall, 

A wreath of ruddy gold ; 

Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 

And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 

The youngest was fair to behold. 

The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 

If he were come from heaven down ; 

The graybeard in the desert hall, 

“ Art thou Christ of Heaven,” quoth he, 

He seeks his Lord’s burnt skeleton, 

“ So will I yield me unto thee.” 

He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall 

The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

“ I am not Christ the Great, 

“The stone wall,” saith he, “doth fall 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet; 

I am an Unknown Knight, 

aside, 

Three modest Maidens have me be- 

Down must the stately columns fall; 

dight.” 







THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 


“ Art thou a Knight elected, 

And have three Maidens thee bedight; 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 

For all the Maidens’ honor ! ” 

The first tilt they together rode 
They put their steeds to the test; 

The second tilt they together rode, 

They proved their manhood best. 


The third tilt they together rode, 
Neither of them would yield; 

The fourth tilt they together rode, 

They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 

And their blood runs unto death; 
Now sit the Maidens in the high tower. 
The youngest sorrows till death. 


THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER. 

FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village 
Gleaming stood in the morning’s sheen. On the spire of the belfry, 

Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun 
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. 

Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses, 
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet 
Murmured gladness and peace, God’s-peace ! with lips rosy-tinted 
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches 
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. 

Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor 
Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon each cross of iron 
Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. 

Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed, 

(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms. 

Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, 

Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children’s children, 

So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron 
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, 

While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 

Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 
When the young, their parents’ hope, and the loved-ones of heaven, 

Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. 

Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. 

There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions 
Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall 
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher’s pulpit of oak-wood 
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silver, 
Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. 

But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Horberg, 

Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling tresses of angels 
Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling, 

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. 

Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging crowd was assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. 







44 BALLADS A AD OTHER POEMS. 


Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, 

Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 

Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle, 

So cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with one voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin, of David’s harp in the North-land 
Tuned to the choral of'Luther ; the song on its mighty pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, 

And each face did shine like the Holy One’s face upon Tabor. 

Lo ! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. 

Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a Christianly plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. 

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 

Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur 

Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a sunbeam. 

As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 
Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) 

Th’ Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man; 

Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver. 

All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. 

But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man 
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, 

Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. 
Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, 

Fell like the dew-of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. 

Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel, 

Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their places, 
Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. 

But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies, 

Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pavement. 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the beginning 
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the old man’s 
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal 
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. 

Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Redeemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. 

Friendly the I eacher stood, like an angel of light there among them, 

And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words, 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, 

Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 

E’en as the green-growing bud unfolds when spring-tide approaches, 

Leaf by leaf puts forth, and, warmed by the radiant sunshine, 

Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom 
Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, 

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, 

Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers 
Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar ; — and straightway transfigured 
(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 





THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 45 


Like th.e Lord’s Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment 
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward descending. 
Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts,' that to him were transparent 
Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. 

So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he questioned. 

“This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, 

This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye 
Lay on your mothers’ breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. 

Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; 

Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor 
Downward rains from the heaven ; — to-day on the threshold of childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, 

For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. 

This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence, 

Seed for the coming days ; without revocation departeth 

Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, before ye make answer ! 

Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher. 

Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. 

Enter not with a lie on Life’s journey ; the multitude hears you, 

Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. 

Thus then, —believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created ? 

Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united ? 

Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to cherish 

God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother ? 

Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, 

Th’ heavenly faith of affection ! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, 

Be what it* may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness ? 

Will ye promise me this before God and man ? ” — With a clear voice 
Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with lips softly-breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the Teacher 
Clouds with the lightnings therein, and he spake in accents more gentle, 
Soft as the evening’s breath, as harps by Babylon’s rivers. 

“ Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of heaven be ye welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters ! 

Yet, —for what reason not children ? Of such is the kingdom of heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, 

Ruling them all as his household, —forgiving in turn and chastising, 

That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. 

Blest are the pure before God ! Upon purity and upon virtue 
Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from on high is descended. 

Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine, 

Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for. 

O, as ye wander this day from childhood’s sacred asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age’s chill valley, 

O, how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long to turn backward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, 

Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven, 





46 BALLADS AND OTILER POEMS. 


Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven ! 

Seventy years have I lived already; the Father eternal 

Gave me gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence, 

When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known them, 
Known them all again ; — they were my childhood’s acquaintance. 

Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence, 

Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man’s childhood. 
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, 

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life’s roaring billows 

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is sleeping. 

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; in the desert 
Angels descend and minister unto her ; she herself knoweth 
Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows faithful and humble, 

Follows so long as she may her friend ; O do not reject her, 

For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. — 

Prayer is Innocence’ friend; and willingly flieth incessant 
’Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven*. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his Father’s manifold mansions, 

Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the flowerets, 
Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and homesick for heaven 
Longs the wanderer again ; and the Spirit’s longings are worship ; 

Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty. 

Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, 

■ Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, 

Then it is good to pray unto God; for his sorrowing children 

Turns he ne’er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles them. 

Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us, 

Pray in fortunate days, for life’s most beautiful Fortune * 

Kneels before the Eternal’s throne ; and, with hands interfolded, 

Praises thankful and moved the only Giver of blessings. 

Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven ? 

What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it has not received ? 

Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! The seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of Him who 
Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when the world he created. 

Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory. 

Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, 

Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke of midnight, millenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath of the Judge is terrific, 

Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. 

Yet, why are ye afraid, ye children ? This awful avenger, 

Ah ! is a merciful God ! God’s voice was not in the earthquake, 

Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. 

Love is the loot of creation ; God’s essence ; worlds without number 
Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. 

Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit 

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 

Hand on its heai t, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven. 






THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 47 


Quench, O quench not that flame ! It is the breath of your being. 

Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother 
Loved you, as God has loved you ; for’t was that you may be happy 
Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-hour 
Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then was completed. 

Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing 
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising 
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 
Th’ answer, but dreamed ofibefore, to creation’s enigma, —Atonement! 

Depths of Love are Atonement’s depths, for Love is Atonement. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father ; 

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection : 

Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that loveth is willing ; 

Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. 

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren; 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead ? 

Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he not sailing 

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 

By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst thou hate then thy brother ? 

Hateth he thee, forgive ! For’t is sweet to stammer one letter 

Of the Eternal’s language ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness ! 

Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his temples ? 
Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? Say, dost thou know him ? 
Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, 

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, 

Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly Shepherd 
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 

Love is the creature’s welfare, with God ; but Love among mortals 
Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, 

Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 

Hope, —so is called upon earth, his recompense, — Plope, the befriending, 
Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful 
Plunges her anchor’s peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows ! 

Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, 

Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, 

Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been transfigured, 

Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance. 

Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of affection, 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. 

Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew’s, 

For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its stable foundation 
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh 
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. 

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic, 

Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her homestead. 
Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow spontaneous 
Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring, 

Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than 
Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate spring-tide. 

Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand and bear witness 






BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 


48 


Not what they seemed, — but what they were only. Blessed is he who 
Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until death’s hand 
Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e’er alarm you ? 

Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only 
More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading 
Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affection, 

Places the ransomed child, new born, ’fore the fare of its Father. 

Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly his pinions, 

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them ! I fear not before him. 

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face standing . 

Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors ; 

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, 

Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured, 

Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, 

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. 

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, 

Never forgets he the weary ; — then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter ! 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, 

Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not; 

Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven. 

God of the universe, hear me ! thou fountain of Love everlasting, 

Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my prayer to thy heaven ! 

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, 

Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved them all like a father. 

May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salvation, 

Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word ; again may they know me, 

Fall on their Teacher’s breast, and before thy face may I place them, 

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness, 

Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me ! ” 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at the beck of the old man 
Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar’s enclosure. 

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly 
With him the children read ; at the close, with tremulous accents, 

Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. 

Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday 
Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord’s holy Supper. 

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his 
Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts high and holy 
Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. 
“ On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall rest in the graveyard ! 

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, 

Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? the hour is accomplished. 

Warm is the heart; — I will! for to-day grows the harVest of heaven. 

What I began accomplish I now ; what failing therein is 
I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. 

Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, 

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement ? 

What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. 

Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 

Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgressions 
Far has wandered from God, from his essence. ’T was in the beginning 
Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o’er the 






THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 49 


Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the Atonement. 
Infinite is the fall, — the Atonement infinite likewise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. 

Sin is brought forth full-grown ; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms 
Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven and of angels, 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in the harp’s strings, 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer’s finger. 

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, 

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all resplendent, 
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o’ercomes her. 

Downward to earth he came, and, transfigured, thence reascended, 

Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the Spirit, 

Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. 

Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. 

Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting 
Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. 

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed 
Lieth forgiveness enshrined ; the intention alone of amendment 
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all 
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended, 

Penitence weeping and praying ; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows 
Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, mankind by Atonement 
Breaketh Atonement’s bread, and drinketh Atonement’s wine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ’s blessed body, 

And the Redeemer’s blood ! To himself he eateth and drinketh 
Death and doom ! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father ! 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement ? ” 

Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children, 

“ Yes ! ” with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications, 

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem : 

“ O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away cur transgressions, 

Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy upon us ! ” 

Th’ old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids, 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. 

O, then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of midday, 

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the churchyard 
Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves ’gan to shiver. 
But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a 
Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members. 

Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it 
Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; they saw there 
Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds 
Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. 

Closed was the Teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces, 
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, 

Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings, 

Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. 

4 




5 ° 


BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
The village smithy stands ; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
His face is like the tan ; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate’er he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face, 
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 


You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter’s voice, 

Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 




































:THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 


5 1 



It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, 
Singing in Paradise ! 

He needs must think of her once more, 
How in the grave she lies ; 

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, —sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 


Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night’s repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought! 





























BALLADS AND OTHER IDE MS. 


THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering 
wall, 

But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 


My thoughts still cling to the mouldering 
Past, 

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the 
blast, 

And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 

Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 


ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars ; 
Her level rays, like golden bars, 

Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. • 

And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 


Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 


On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When, sleeping in the grove, 
He dreamed not of her love. 


Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought; 
















TO THE RIVER. CHARLES. 


53 


Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 

The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 
To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows 
deep, 

Are Life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep. 

And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 


O weary hearts.! O slumbering eyes ! 

O drooping souls, whose destinies 
Are fraught with fear and pain, 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate, 

No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown, 
Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings, 

An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 

“ Where hast thou stayed so long ! ” 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 
Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 
Say, “ It is Christ of Nazareth ! ” 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

'Irjaov, ]crov /xe ! 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 

Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 

But still, above the noisy crowd, 

The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud ; 

Until they say, “ He calleth thee ! ” 
Qapaet, eyeipai, (pooue7 <re / 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, “ What wilt thou at my 
hands ? ” 


And he replies, “ O give me light! 

Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight ! ” 
And Jesus answers, ‘'Tnaye • 

‘H tt'uttis (Tov (TeVco/ce ae ! 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 

In darkness and in misery, 

Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

’ l-qcrou , 4\4t]<r6v /xe ! 

Qapaei, eyeipai, vnaye ! 

‘H ttlctis aov crecroj/ce ere ! 

TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 
Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 























54 


BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 


Four long years of mingle.d feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 
Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 


I have felt my heart beat lighter, 

And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 

Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee. 
And thy waters disappear, 

Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 
And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 



Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 
On the hearth-stone of my heart! 

’T is for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee : 

Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 














MAIDENHOOD. 


55 





EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 

As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and 
ice, 

A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and 
bright; 

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 

And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

“ Try not the Pass! ” the old man 
said ; 

“ Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 

The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! ” 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

“ O stay,” the maiden said, “ and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! ” 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 

But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 


“ Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! ” 

This was the peasant’s last Good-night, 

A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 

Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell, like a falling star, 

Excelsior ! 


MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 

As the braided streamlets run ! 




















BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 


56 



Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 


O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares ! 
Care and age come unawares ! 


Gazing, with a timid glance, 

On the brooklet’s swift advance, 
On the river’s broad expanse ! 


Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 

May glides onward into June. 


Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 

As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 


Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered: — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 

To embalm that tent of snows. 


Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon’s shadow fly ? 


Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 
One touch of that magic wand. 


Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract’s roar ? 


Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 

On thy lips the smile of truth. 




























THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 


57 


O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; 


And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 

For a smile of God hou art. 



, GOD’S-ACRE. 

I 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which 
calls 

The burial-ground God’s-Acre ! It is 
just ; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o’er the sleep¬ 
ing dust. 

God’s-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name im¬ 
parts 

Comfort to those, who in the grave 
have sown 

The seed that they had garnered in 
their hearts, 

Their bread of life, alas ! no more their 
own. 


Then shall the good stand in immortal 
bloom, 

In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom mingle its per¬ 
fume 

With that of flowers, which never 
bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn 
up the sod, 

And spread the furrow for the seed we 
sow; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place where human har¬ 
vests grow ! 

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 


Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 
At the great harvest, when the archan¬ 
gel’s blast 

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and 
grain. 


FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 


































BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 


Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 

So long, that both by night and day 
It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 
Then dropt the child asleep. 


But now the dream is wholly o’er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 

And wander through the world once more, 
A youth so light and free. ' 

Two locks — and they are wondrous fair — 
Left me that vision mild ; 

The brown is from the mother’s hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold, 

Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 

I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. 

Spanish Proverb. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 
And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring. 


So blue yon winding river flows, 

It seems an outlet from the sky, 

Where waiting till the west-wind blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest, 
And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
I here are no birds in last year’s nest ! 








THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 


59 


All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fulness of their first delight ! 
And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 


Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim ; 

And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 

And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen, 

Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 

Is filled with waters, that upstart, 

When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 

Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 

With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbfowned 


Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 

For O, it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 

To some good angel leave the rest; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year’s nest! ^ 



Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 

The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 

And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 

Mingled it in their daily food ; 

And he who battled and subdued, 

A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life’s goblet freely press, 

The leaves that give it bitterness, 

Nor prize the colored waters less, 

For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show. 













6o 


BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 


How bitter are the drops of woe, 

With which its brim may overflow, 

He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax Avas for light; 
Through all that dark and desperate 
fight, 

The blackness of that noonday night, 

He asked but the return of sight, 

To see his foeman’s face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care 


That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity ! 

O ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery, 

Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

I pledge you in this cup of grief, 

Where floats the fennel’s bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief 
Then sleep we side by side. 














POEMS ON SLAVERY. 


1842. 


[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had 
not then heard of Dr. Channing’s death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appro¬ 
priate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a 
great and good man. ] 


TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 

My heart, responding, ever said, 

“ Servant of God ! well done ! ” 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold; 

At times they seem to me, 

Like Luther’s, in the days of old, 
Half-battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 
The old and chartered Lie, 


The feudal curse, whose whips and 
yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 
Speaking in tones of might, 

Like the prophetic voice, that cried 
To John in Patmos, “ Write ! ” 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ; 

Record this dire eclipse, 

This Day of Wrath, this Endless 
Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse ! 



THE SLAVE’S DREAM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 
His sickle in his hand ; 


His breast was bare, his matted hair 
Was buried in the sand. 

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 
He saw his Native Land. 





























62 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

Wide through the landscape of his 

And his lifeless body lay 

dreams 

A worn-out fetter, that the soul 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 

Beneath the palm-trees on the plain > 

Once more a king he strode ; 

Had broken and thrown away ! 

And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

Among her children stand ; 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa’s side, 

They clasped his neck, they kissed his 

In valleys green and cool ; 

cheeks, 

And all her hope and all her pride 

They held him by the hand ! — 

A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids 

Are in the village school. 

And fell into the sand. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 

That robes the hills above, 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Though not of earth, encircles there 

Along the Niger’s bank ; 

His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

All things with arms of love. 

And, with a martial clank, 

And thus she walks among her girls 

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of 

With praise and mild rebukes ; 

steel 

Subduing e’en rude village churls 

Smiting his stallion’s flank. 

By her angelic looks. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

She reads to them at eventide 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 

Of One who came to save ; 

From morn till night he followed their 

To cast the captive’s chains aside 

flight, 

O’er plains where the tamarind grew, 

And liberate the slave. 

Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 

And oft the blessed time foretells 

And the ocean rose to view. 

When all men shall be free ; 


And musical, as silver bells, 

At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyena scream, 

Their falling chains shall be. 

And the river-horse, as he crushed the 

And following her beloved Lord, 

reeds 

In decent poverty, 

. Beside some hidden stream ; 

She makes her life one sweet record 

And it passed, like a glorious roll of 
drums, 

And deed of charity. 

Through the triumph of his dream. 

For she was rich, and gave up all 

To break the iron bands 

The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Of those who waited in her hall, 

Shouted of liberty; 

And the Blast of the Desert cried 

And labored in her lands. 

aloud, 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 

With a voice so wild and free, 

Their outbound sails have sped, 

That he started in his sleep and smiled 

While she, in meek humility, 

At their tempestuous glee. 

Now earns her daily bread. 

He did not feel the driver’s whip, 

It is their prayers, which never cease, 

Nor the burning heat of day ; 

That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 

For Death had illumined the Land of 

Sleep, 

That shines upon her face. 









THE SLATE SEVG/NG AT MIDNIGHT. 


63 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 
The hunted Negro lay ; 

He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse’s tramp 
And a bloodhound’s distant bay. 


And wild-birds filled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain. 
From the morning of his birth ; 

On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain. 
And struck him to the earth ! 


Where will-o’-the-wisps and glow-worms 
shine, 

In bulrush and in brake ; 

Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 

And the cedar grows, and the poisonous 
vine 

Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass, 

Or a human heart would dare, 

On the quaking turf of the green morass 

He crouched in .the rank and tangled 
grass, 

Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 

On his forehead he bore the brand of 
shame, 

And the rags, that hid his mangled 
frame, 

Were the livery of disgrace. 

All things above were bright and fair, 

All things were glad and free ; 

Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 


THE SLAVE SINGING AT MJD 
NIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 

He, a Negro and enslaved, 

Sang of Israel’s victory, 

Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 

In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 

Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 

Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 

Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, 






































64 


POEMS ON SLAVERY. 


And an earthquake’s arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake’s arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 


The Slaver’s thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, “ My ship at anchor rides 
In yonder broad lagoon ; 

I only wait the evening tides, 

And the rising of the moon.” 


THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
Lay moored with idle sail; 

He waited for the rising moon, 

And for the evening gale. 


Before them, with her face upraised, 
In timid attitude, 

Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light, 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 



Under the shore his boat was tied, 
And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 
Into the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 
Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 


No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, 
And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile 
As holy, meek, and faint, 

As lights in some cathedral aisle 
The features of a saint. 

“ The soil is barren, — the farm is old ; ” 
The thoughtful Planter said ; 

Then looked upon the Slaver’s gold, 

And then upon the maid. 












THE WARNING. 


His heart within him was at strife 
With such accursed gains : 

For he knew whose passions gave her 
life, 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the glittering gold ! 

Then pale as death grew the maiden’s 
cheek, 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 

To b.e his slave and paramour 
In a strange and distant land ! 

* 

THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean’s wide domains, 

Half buried in the sands, 

Lie skeletons in chains, 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 

Deeper than plummet lies, 

Float ships, with all their crews, 

No more to sink nor rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves ; 

They gleam from the abyss ; 

They cry, from yawning waves, 

“ We are the Witnesses ! ” 

Within Earth’s wide domains 
Are markets for men’s lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 

Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 
In deserts makes its prey ; 

S 


Murders, that with affright 

Scare school-boys from their play ! 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 

The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life’s groaning tide ! 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss ; 

They cry, from unknown graves, 
“We are the Witnesses ! ” 


THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore 
The lion in his path, — when, poor and 
blind, 

He saw the blessed light of heaven no 
more, 

Shorn of his noble strength and forced 
to grind 

In prison, and at last led forth to be 

A pander to Philistine revelry, — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

His desperate hands, and in its over¬ 
throw 

Destroyed himself, and with him those 
who made 

A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest 
of all, 

Expired, and thousands perished in the 
fall! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, 
Shorn of his strength, and bound in 
bonds of steel, 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his 
hand, 

And shake the pillars of this Common¬ 
weal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish 
lies. * 










% 

THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

1843. 

DRAMATIS 

PERSONAE. 

Victorian 1 

A tude71 ts of A tcala. 

Hypolito j 


The Count of Lara ) 

. . . . Getitlemen of Madrid. 

Don Carlos ) 


The Archbishop of Toledo. 


A Cardinal. 


Beltran Cruzado .... 

. . . Count of the Gypsies. 

Bartolome Roman .... 

. . . A young Gypsy. 

The Padre Cura of Gaudarrama. 


Pedro Crespo . 


Pancho . 


Francisco. 


Chispa. 


Baltasar . 


Preciosa. 


Angelica. 


Martina. 


Dolores. 


Gypsies , Musicians , etc. 

ACT I. 

There were three duels fought in the 


first act, 

Scene I. — The Count of Lara’s chant - 

Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, 

hers. Night. The Count in his dress- 

Laying their hands upon their hearts, and 

ing-gown, smoking and conversing with 

saying, 

Don Carlos. 

“ 0, I am dead ! ” a lover in a closet, 


An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 

Lara. You were not at the play to- 

A Doha Inez with a black mantilla, 

night, Don Carlos; 

Followed at twilight by an unknown 

How happened it ? 

lover, 

Don C. I had engagements elsewhere. 

Who looks intently where he knows she 

Pray who was there ? 

is not! 

Lara. Why, all the town and court. 

Don C. Of course, the Preciosa 

The house was crowded ; and the busy 

danced to-night ? 

fans 

Lara. And never better. Every foot- 

Among the gayly dressed and perfumed 

step fell 

ladies 

As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 

Fluttered like butterflies among the 

I think the girl extremely beautiful. 

flowers. 

Don C. Almost beyond the privilege 

There was the Countess of Medina Celi; 

of woman ! 

The Goblin Lady with her Phantom 

I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 

Lover, 

Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and 

Her Lindo Don Diego ; Doha Sol, 

her face 

And Doha Serafina, and her cousins. 

As beautiful as a saint’s in Paradise. 

Don C. What was the play ? 

Lara. May not a saint fall from her 

Lara. It w r as a dull affair ; 

Paradise, 

One of those comedies in which you see, 

And be no more a saint ? 

As Lope says, the history of the world 

Don C. Why do you ask ? 

Brought down from Genesis to the Day 

Lara. Because I have heard it said 

of Judgment. 

this angel fell, 




/- , 


























THE SPANISH STUDENT. 67 


And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin 
Mary 

On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 

Don C. You do her wrong ; indeed, 
you do her wrong ! 

She is as virtuous as she is fair. 

Lara. Plow credulous you are ! Why 
look you, friend, 

There’s not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you per¬ 
suade me 

That a mere dancing-girl, who shows 
herself, 

Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for 
money, 

And with voluptuous motions fires the 
blood 

Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 

Don C. You forget 

She is a Gypsy girl. 

Lara. And therefore won 

The easier. 

Don C. Nay, not to be won at all ! 
The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes 
Is chastity. That is her only virtue. 
Dearer than life she holds it. I remem¬ 
ber 

A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, 
Whose craft was to betray the young and 
fair ; 

And yet this woman was above all bribes. 
And when a noble lord, touched by her 
beauty, 

The wild and wizard beauty of her race, 
Offered her gold to be what she made 
others, 

She turned upon him, with a look of 
scorn, 

And smote him in the face ! 

Lara. And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 

Don C. It proves a nobleman may be 
repulsed 

When he thinks conquest easy. I be¬ 
lieve 

That woman, in her deepest degrada¬ 
tion, 

Holds something sacred, something un¬ 
defiled, 


Some pledge and keepsake of her higher 
nature, 

And, like the diamond in the dark, re¬ 
tains 

Some quenchless gleam of the celestial 
light ! 

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken 
the gold. 

Don C. [rising). I do not think so. 

Lara. I am sure of it. 

But why this haste ? Stay yet a little 
longer, 

And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 

Don C. ’T is late. I must begone, 
for if I stay 

You will not be persuaded. 

Lara. Yes ; persuade me. 

Don C. No one so deaf as he who will 
not hear ! 

L.ara. No one so blind as he who will 
not see ! 

Don C. And so good night. I wish 
you pleasant dreams, 

And greater faith in woman. \Exit. 

Lara. Greater faith ! 

I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow; and there¬ 
after 

Another, and another, and another, 
Chasing each other through her zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 

[Enter Francisco zvith a casket.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa ? 

Fran. None, my lord. 

She sends your jewels back, and bids me 
tell you 

She is not to be purchased by your 
gold. 

Lara. Then I will try some other way 
to win her. 

Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 

Fran. Yes, my lord ; 

I saw him at the jeweller’s to-day. 

Lara. What was he doing there ? 

Fran. I saw him buy 

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 

Lara. Was there another like it ? 

Fran. One so like it 

I could not choose between them. 

Lara. It is well. 








68 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


To-morrow morning bring that ring to 
me. 

Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A street in Madrid. Enter 
Chispa, followed by musicians, with a 
bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. 

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas ! and a 
plague on all lovers who ramble about at 
night, drinking the elements, instead of 
sleeping quietly in their beds. Every 
dead man to his cemetery, say I ; and 
every friar to his monastery. Now, here’s 
my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow- 
keeper, and to-day a gentleman ; yester¬ 
day a student, and to-day a lover ; and I 
must be up later than the nightingale, for 
as the abbot sings so must the sacristan 
respond. God grant he may soon be 
married, for then shall all this serenading 
cease. Ay, many! marry ! marry ! 
Mother, what does marry mean ? It 
means to spin, to bear children, and to 
weep, my daughter ! And, of a truth, 
there is something more in matrimony 
than the wedding-ring. ( To the musi¬ 
cians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobis- 
cum ! as the ass said to the cabbages. 
Pray, walk this way; and don’t hang 
down your heads. It is no disgrace to 
have an old father and a ragged shirt. 
Now, look you, you are gentlemen who 
lead the life of crickets ; you enjoy hun¬ 
ger by day and noise by night. Yet, I 
beseech you, for this once be not loud, 
but pathetic ; for it is a serenade to a 
damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the 
Moon. Your object is not to arouse and 
terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling 
dreams. Therefore, each shall not play 
upon his instrument as if it were the only 
one in the universe, but gently, and with 
a ce-rtain modesty, according with the 
others. Pray, how may I call thy name, 
friend ? 

First Mus. Geronimo Gil, at your ser¬ 
vice. 

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine 
that is in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not 
Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 
First Mus. Why so ? 


Chispa. Because I have heard it said 
that Saturday is an unpleasant day with 
those who have but one shirt. More¬ 
over, I have seen thee at the tavern, and 
if thou canst run as fast as thou canst 
drink, I should like to hunt hares with 
thee. What instrument is that ? 

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. 
Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the 
bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a mara- 
vedi for playing, and ten for leaving off ? 
First Mus. No, your honor. 

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other 
instruments have we ? 

Second and Third Mus. We play the 
bandurria. 

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And 
thou ? 

E'ourth AIus. The fife. 

Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, 
soul-stirring sound, that soars up to my 
lady’s window like the song of a swallow. 
And you others ? 

Other .Ahis. We are the singers, 
please your honor. 

Chispa. You are too many. Do you 
think we are going to sing mass in the 
cathedral of Cordova ? Four men can 
make but little use of one shoe, and I see 
not how you can all sing in one song. 
But follow me along the garden wall. 
That is the way my master climbs to the 
lady’s window. It is by the Vicar’s skirts 
that the Devil climbs into the belfry. 
Come, follow me, and make no noise. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Preciosa’s chamber. She 
stands at the open window. 

Prec. How slowly through the lilac- 
scented air 

Descends the tranquil moon! Like 
thistle-down 

The vapory clouds float in the peaceful 
sky ; 

And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of 
shade 

The nightingales breathe out their souls 
in song. 

And hark ! what songs of love, what 
soul-like sounds, 

Answer them from below ! 









THE SPANISH STUDENT. 69 

SERENADE. 

Prec. An honest thief, to steal but 
what thou givest. 

Stars of the summer night ! 

Viet. And we shall sit together unmo- 

Far in yon azure deeps, 

lested, 

Hide, hide your golden light ! 

And words of true love pass from tongue 

She sleeps ! 

to tongue, 

My lady sleeps ! 

As singing birds from one bough to an- 

Sleeps ! 

other. 

Prec. That were a life to make time 

Moon of the summer night ! 

envious ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 

I knew that thou wouldst come to me to- 

Sink, sink in silver light ! 

night. 

She sleeps ! 

I saw thee at the play. 

My lady sleeps ! 

Viet. Sweet child of air ! 

Sleeps ! 

Never did I behold thee so attired 


And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 

Wind of the summer night! 

What hast thou done to make thee look 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 

so fair ? 

Fold, fold thy pinions light! 

Prec. Ami not always fair ? 

She sleeps ! 

Viet. Ay, and so fair 

My lady sleeps ! 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see 

Sleeps ! 

thee, 

And wish that they were blind. 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Prec. I heed them not; 

Tell her, her lover keeps 

When thou art present, I see none but 

Watch ! while in slumbers light 

thee ! 

She sleeps ! 

Viet. There’s nothing fair nor beauti- 

My lady sleeps ! 

ful, but takes 

Sleeps ! 

Something from thee, that makes it beau¬ 
tiful. I 

{Enter Victorian by the balcony .) 

Prec. And yet thou leavest me for those 

Viet. Poor little dove ! Thou trem- 

dusty books. 

blest like a leaf! 

Viet. Thou comest between me and 

Prec. I am so frightened ! ’Tis for 

those books too often ! 

thee I tremble ! 

I see thy face in everything I see 1 

[ hate to have thee climb that wall by 

The paintings in the chapel wear thy 

night! 

looks, 

Did no one see thee ? 

The canticles are changed to sarabands, 

Viet. None, my love, but thou. 

And with the learned doctors of the 

Prec. ’T is very dangerous ; and 

schools 

when thou art gone 

I see thee dance' cachuchas. 

I chide myself for letting thee come here 

Prec. In good sooth, 

Thus stealthily by night. Where hast 

I dance with learned doctors of the 

thou been ? 

schools 

Since yesterday I have no news from thee. 

To-morrow morning. 

Viet. Since yesterday I’ve been in 

Viet. And with whom, I pray ? 

Alcala. 

Prec. A grave and reverend Cardinal, 

Erelong the time will come, sweet Pre- 

and his Grace 

The Archbishop of Toledo. 

When that dull distance shall no more 

Viet. What mad jest 

divide us ; 

Is this ? 

And I no more shall scale thy wall by 

Prec. It is no jest ; indeed it is not. 

night 

To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 

Viet. Prithee explain thysell. 

Prec. Why, simply thus. 











70 


IIIE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Thou knowest the Pope has sent here 
into Spain 

To put a stop to dances on the stage. 

Viet. I have heard it whispered. 

Free. Now the* Cardinal, 

Who for this purpose comes, would fain 
behold 

With his own eyes these dances ; and the 
Archbishop 
Has sent for me — 

Viet. That thou mayst dance before 
them ! 

Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
The fire of youth into these gray old 
men ! 

’T will be thy proudest conquest ! 

Free. Saving one. 

And yet I fear these dances will be 
stopped, 

And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 

Viet. The sweetest beggar that e’er 
asked for alms ; 

With such beseeching eyes, that when I 
saw thee 

I gave my heart away ! 

Free. Dost thou remember 

When first we met ? 

Viet. It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sit¬ 
ting 

Under the orange-trees, beside a foun¬ 
tain. 

Free. ’T was Easter-Sunday. The full- 
blossomed trees 

Filled all the air with fragrance and with 
joy. 

The priests were singing, and the organ 
sounded, 

And then anon the great cathedral bell. 

It was the elevation of the Host. 

We both of us fell down upon our knees, 
Under the orange boughs, and prayed 
together. 

I never had been happy till that moment. 

Viet. Thou blessed angel ! 

Free. And when thou wast gone 

I felt an aching here. I did not speak 
To any one that day. But from that day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 

Viet. Remember him no more. Let 
not his shadow 

Come between thee and me. Sweet 
Preciosa ! 


I loved thee even then, though I was 
silent! 

Free. I thought I ne’er should see thy 
face again. 

Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 

Viet. That was the first sound in the 
song of love ! 

Scarce more than silence is, and yet a 
sound. 

Hands of invisible spirits touch the 
strings 

Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 

And play the prelude of our fate. We 
hear 

The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 

Free. That is my faith. Dost thou 
believe these warnings ? 

Viet. So far as this. Our feelings and 
our thoughts 

Tend ever on, and rest not in the Pres¬ 
ent. 

As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 

And from below comes a scarce audible 
sound, 

So fall our thoughts into the dark Here¬ 
after, 

And their mysterious echo reaches us. 

Prec. I have felt it so, but found no 
words to say it ! 

I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 

But thou hast language for all thoughts 
and feelings. 

Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I 
think 

We cannot walk together in this world ! 

The distance that divides us is too great! 

Henceforth thy pathway lies among the 
stars ; 

I must not hold thee back. 

Viet. Thou little sceptic ! 

Dost thou still doubt ? What I most 
prize in woman 

Is her affections, not her intellect ! 

The intellect is finite ; but the affections 

Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 

Compare me with the great men of the 
earth ; 

What am I ? Why, a pygmy among 
giants ! 

But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say 
lovest, 

The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 

The world of the affections is thy world, 













THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


7 1 


Not that of man’s ambition. In that still¬ 
ness 

Which most becomes a woman, calm and 
holy, 

Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its 
nature, 

But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou con¬ 
vinced ? 

Prec. Yes,, that I love thee, as the good 
love heaven ; 

But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

Viet. Losing more. 

Prec. I cannot love thee more ; my 
heart is full. 

Viet. Then let it overflow, and I will 
drink it, 

As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watchman (in the street ). Ave 
Maria 

Purissima ! ’T is midnight and serene ! 

Viet. Hear’st thou that cry ? 

Prec. It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me ! 

Viet. As the hunter’s horn 

Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of 
hounds 

The moor-fowl from his mate. 

Prec. Pray, do not go ! 

Viet. I must away to Alcala to-night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

Prec. Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think of 
thee. 

Viet, (giving her a ring). And to re¬ 
mind thee of my love, take this ; 

A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 

A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart’s 
blood. 

Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the 
ruby 

Brings gladness to the wearer, and pre¬ 
serves 

The heart, pure, and, if laid beneath the 
pillow, 

Drives away evil dreams. But then, 
alas ! 

It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 


Viet. What convent of barefooted Car¬ 
melites 

Taught thee so much theology ? 

Prec. (laying her hand upon his mouth ). 

Hush ! hush ! 

Good night ! and may all holy angels 
guard thee ! 

Viet. Good night ! good night ! Thou 
art my guardian angel ! 

I have no other saint than thou to pray 
to ! 

(He descends by the balcony.) 

Prec. Take care, and do not hurt thee. 
Art thou safe ? 

Viet, (from the garden). Safe as my 
love for thee ! But art thou safe ? 

Others can climb a balcony by moon¬ 
light 

As well as I. Pray shut thy window 
close ; 

I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 

That from this garden climbs to kiss thy 
lips. 

Prec. (throwing denun her handker¬ 
chief). Thou silly child! Take 
this to blind thine eyes, 

It is my benison ! 

Viet. And brings to me 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft 
wind 

Wafts to the out-bound mariner the 
breath 

Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 

Prec. Make not thy voyage long. 

Viet. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art 
the star 

To guide me to an anchorage. Good 
night ! 

My beauteous star ! My star of love, 
good night! 

Prec. Good night ! 

Watchman (at a distance). Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 

Scene IV. — An inn on the road to Al 

cald. Baltasar asleep on a bench. 

Enter Chispa. 

Chispa. And here we are, half-way to 

Alcala, between cocks and midnight. 

Body o’ me ! what an inn this is ! The 






72 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


lights out, and the landlord asleep. Hola ! 
ancient Baltasar ! 

Bal. (waking)- Here I am. 

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one- 
eyed Alcalde in a town without inhab¬ 
itants. Bring a light, and let me have 
supper. 

Bal. Where is your master ? 

Chispa. Do not trouble yourself about 
him. We have stopped a moment to 
breathe our horses ; and, if he chooses to 
walk up and down in the open air, looking 
into the sky as one who hears it rain, that 
does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But 
be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every 
man stretches his legs according to the 
length of his coverlet. What have we 
here ? 

Bal. (setting a light on the table). 
Stewed rabbit. 

Chispa {eating). Conscience of Por- 
talegre ! Stewed kitten, you mean ! 

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, 
with a roasted pear in it. 

Chispa {drinking). Ancient Baltasar, 
amigo ! You know how to cry wine and 
sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing 
but Vino Tinto of La Mancha, with a 
tang of the swine-skin. 

Bal. I swear to you by Saint Simon 
and Judas, it is all as I say. 

Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint 
Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such 
thing. Moreover, your supper is like the 
hidalgo’s dinner, very little meat and a 
great deal of tablecloth. 

Bal. Ha ! ha ! ha! 

Chispa. And more noise than nuts. 

Bal. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must have your 
joke, Master Chispa. But shall I not 
ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught 
of the Pedro Ximenes ? 

Chispa. No ; you might as well say, 
“ Don’t-you-want-some ? ” to a dead man. 

Bal. Why does he go so often to 
Madrid ? 

Chispa. For the same reason that he 
eats no supper. He is in love. Were 
you ever in love, Baltasar ? 

Bal. I was never out of it, good 
Chispa. 

It has been the torment of my life. 

Chispa. What ! are you on fire, too, old 


hay-stack ? Why, we shall never be able 
to put you out. 

Viet, {without). Chispa! 

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for 
the cocks are crowing. 

Viet. Ea ! Chispa ! Chispa ! 

Chispa. Ea ! Senor. Come with me, 
ancient Baltasar, and bring water for the 
horses. I will pay for the supper to-mor¬ 
row. [ Exeunt. 

Scene V. — Victorian’s chambers at 
Alcala. Hypolito asleep hi an arm¬ 
chair. He awakes slowly. 

Hyp. I must have been asleep ! ay, 
sound asleep ! 

And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet 
sleep ! 

Whatever form thou takest, thou art 
fair. 

Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion’s well, a healing draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it must 
be late. 

Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray 
Carrillo, 

The only place in which one cannot find 
him 

Is his own cell. Here’s his guitar, that 
seldom 

Feels the caresses of its master’s hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a 
song. 

{Heplays and sings.) 

Padre Francisco ! 

Padre Francisco ! 

What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
Here is a pretty young maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins ! 

Open the door and let her come in, 

I will shrive her from every sin. 

{Enter Victorian.) 

Viet. Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hy¬ 
polito ! 

Hyp. What do you want of Padre Ply- 
polito ? 

Viet. Come, shrive me straight; for, 
if love be a sin, 

I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 









THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 

A maiden wooed and won. 

Hyp. The same old tale 

Of the old woman in the chimney-corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, “ Come 
here, my child ; 

I ’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day.” 

Viet. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; 
so full 

That I must speak. 

Hyp. Alas ! that heart of thine 

Is like a scene in the old play ; the cur¬ 
tain 

Rises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! 

Viet. Nay, like the Sibyl’s \»olumes, 
thou shouldst say ; 

Those that remained, after the six were 
burned, 

Being held more precious than the nine 
together. 

But listen to my tale. Dost thou remem¬ 
ber 

The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Romalis in the market-place ? 

Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. 

Viet. Ay, the same. 

Thou knowest how her image haunted 
me 

Long after we returned to Alcala. 

She’s in Madrid. 

Hyp. I know it. 

Viet. And I’m in love. 

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when 
thou shouldst be 
In Alcala. 

Viet. O pardon me, my friend, 

If I so long have kept this secret from 
thee ; 

But silence is the charm that guards such 
treasures, 

And, if a word be spoken ere the time, 
They sink again, they were not meant for 
us. 

Hyp. Alas ! alas ! I see thou art in 
love. 

Love keeps the cold out better than a 
cloak. 

It serves for food and raiment. Give a 
Spaniard 

His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa — 
Thou knowest the proverb. But pray 
tell me, lover. 


How speeds thy wooing ? Is the maiden 
coy ? 

Write her a song, beginning with an 
Ave ; 

Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin 
Mary, 

Ave ! ciijus cal cent clarc 
Nee centenni cominendare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 

Viet. Pray, do not jest! This is no 
time for it! 

I am in earnest! 

Hyp. Seriously enamored ? 

What, ho ! The Primus of great Alcala 
Enamored of a Gypsy ? Tell me frankly, 
How meanest thou ? 

Viet. I mean it honestly. 

Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 
Viet. Why not ? 

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bar- 
tolorne, 

If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 

Viet. They quarrelled, 

And so the matter ended. 

Hyp. But in truth 

Thou wilt not marry her. 

Viet. In truth I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was 
born ! 

She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I ’ll stoop for it; but when I wear it here, 
Set on my forehead like the morning star, 
The world may wonder, but it will not 
laugh. 

Hyp. If thou wear’st nothing else upon 
. thy forehead, 

’T will be indeed a wonder. 

Viet. Out upon thee 

With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray tell 
me, 

Is there no virtue in the world ? 

Hyp. Not much. 

What, think’st thou, is she doing at this 
moment; 

Now, while we speak of her ? 

Viet. She lies asleep, 

And from her parted lips her gentle 
breath 

Comes like the fragrance from the lips of 
flowers. 








74 the SPANISH STUDENT. 


Her tender limbs are still, and on her 
breast 

The cross she prayed to, ere she fell 
asleep, 

Rises and falls with the soft tide of 
dreams, 

Like a light barge safe moored. 

Hyp. Which means, in prose, 

She’s sleeping with her mouth a little 
open ! 

Viet. O, would I had the old magician’s 
glass 

To see her as she lies in childlike sleep ! 

Hyp. And wouldst thou venture ? 

Viet. Ay, indeed I would ! 

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou 
e’er reflected 

How much lies hidden in that one word, 

7/070 ? s 

Viet. Yes; all the awful mystery of 
Life ! 

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 

That could we, by some spell of magic, 
change 

The world and its inhabitants to stone, 

In the same attitudes they now are in, 

What fearful glances downward might we 
cast 

Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 

What groups should we behold about the 
death-bed, 

Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 

What joyful welcomes, and what sad fare¬ 
wells ! 

What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 

What visible joy or anguish in those 
cheeks! 

What bridal pomps, and what funereal 
shows ! 

What foes, like gladiators, fierce and 
struggling ! 

What lovers with their marble lips to¬ 
gether ! 

Hyp. Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in 
love, 

That is the very point I most should 
dread. 

This magic glass, these magic spells of 
thine, 

Might tell a tale were better left untold. 

For instance, they might show us thy fair 
cousin, 

The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 


Of love and anger, like the maid of Col¬ 
chis, 

Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 
Having won that golden fleece, a woman’s 
love, 

Desertest for this Glauce. 

Viet. Hold thy peace ! 

She cares not for me. She may wed an¬ 
other, 

Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, 
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 

Hyp. {rising). And so, good night ! 
Good morning, I should say. 

{Clock strikes three.) 

Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace 
of Time 

Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! 
And so, once more, good night! We’ll 
speak more largely 
Of Preciosa when we meet again. 

Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, 
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, 
In all her loveliness. Good night ! 

[Exit. 

Viet. Good night ! 

But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 

{Throws himself into the arm-chair which 
Hypolito has left, and lays a laige book 
open upon his knees.) 

Must read, or sit in revery and watch 
The changing color of the waves that 
break 

Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind ! 
Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 
Making night glorious with your smile, 
where are ye ? 

O, who shall give me, now that ye are 
gone, 

Juices of those immortal plants that 
bloom 

Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 

Or teach me where that wondrous man¬ 
drake grows 

Whose magic root, torn from the earth 
with groans, 

At midnight hour, can scare the fiends 
away, 

And make the mind prolific in its fancies ? 
I have the wish, but want the will, to act! 
Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose 
words 


«• 







THE SPANISH STUDENT. 75 

Have come to light from the swift river 

Clad in a mortal shape! Alas ! how 

of Time, 

many 

Like Roman swords found in the Tagus’ 

Must wait in vain ! The stream flows 

bed, 

evermore, 

Where is the strength to wield the arms 

But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 

ye bore ? 

Yet I, born under a propitious star, 

From the barred visor of Antiquity 

Have found the bright ideal of my 

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 

dreams. 

As from a mirror ! All the means of ac- 

Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel, 

tion — 

Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, 

. The shapeless masses, the materials — 

Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can 

Lie everywhere about us. What we need 

feel 

Is the celestial fire to change the flint 

The pressure of her head ! God’s benison 

Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 

Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous 

That fire is genius ! The rude peasant 

eyes, 

sits ' 

Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that 

At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 

bloom at night 

With charcoal uncouth figures on the 

With balmy lips breathe in her ears my 

wall. 

name ! 

The son of genius comes, foot-sore with 
travel, 

( Gradually sinks asleep .) 

And begs a shelter from the inclement 
night. 

ACT II. 

He takes the charcoal from the peasant’s 
hand, 

Scene I. — Preciosa’s chamber. Morn- 

And, by the magic of his touch at once 

ing. Preciosa and Angelica. 

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, 
And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 

Prec. Why will you go so soon ? Stay 

It gleams a diamond ! Even thus trans- 

yet awhile. 

formed, 

The poor too often turn away unheard 

Rude popular traditions and old tales 

From hearts that shut against them with 

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 

a sound 

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wan- 

That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell 

dering bard, 

me more 

Who had but a night’s lodging for his 

Of your adversities. Keep nothing from 

pains. 

me. 

But there are brighter dreams than those 

What is your landlord’s name ? 

of Fame, 

Ang. The Count of Lara. 

Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of 

Prcc. The Count of Lara ? O, beware 

the heart 

that man ! 

Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 

Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with 

As from some woodland fount a spirit 

him ! 

rises 

And rather die an outcast in the streets 

And sinks again into its silent deeps, 

Than touch his gold. 

Ere the enamored knight can touch her 

Ang. You know him, then ! 

robe ! 

Prec. As much 

’T is this ideal that the soul of man, 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 

Like the enamored knight beside the 

As you would keep your name without a 

fountain, 

blemish, 

Waits for upon the margin of Life’s 

Beware of him ! 

stream ; 

Ang. * Alas ! what can I do ? 

Waits to behold her rise from the dark 

I cannot choose my friends. Each word 

waters, 

of kindness, 










76 THE SPANISH STUDENT 

Come whence it may, is welcome to the 

Prec. I deserve no thanks. 

poor. 

Thank Heaven, not me. 

Tree. Make me your friend. A girl so 

Ang. Both Heaven and you. 

young and fair 

Prec. Farewell. 

Should have no friends but those of her 

Remember that you come again to- 

own sex. 

morrow. 

What is your name ? 

Ang. I will. And may the Blessed 

Ang. Angelica. 

Virgin guard you, 

Tree. That name 

And all good angels. \Exit. 

Was given you, that you might be an 

Prec. May they guard thee too, 

angel 

And all the poor ; for they have need of 

To her who bore you ! When your infant 

angels. 

smile 

Now bring me, dear Dolores, my bas- 

Made her home Paradise, you were her 

quina, 

angel. 

My richest maja dress, — my dancing 

0 , be an angel still ! She needs that 

dress, 

smile. 

And my most precious jewels ! Make 

So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 

me look 

No one can harm you ! I am a poor-girl, 

Fairer than night e’er saw me ! I ’ve a 

Whom chance has taken from the public 

prize 

streets. 

To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 

I have no other shield than mine own 
virtue. 

(Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

That is the charm which has protected 

Cruz. Ave Maria ! 

me ! 

Prec. O God ! my evil genius ! 

Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 

What seekest thou here to-day ? 

Here on my heart ! It is my guardian 

Cruz. Thyself, — my child. 

angel. 

Prec. What is thy will with me ? 

Ang. (rising). I thank you for this 

Cruz. Gold ! gold ! 

counsel, dearest lady. 

Prec. I gave thee yesterday ; I have 

Tree. Thank me by following it. 

no more. 

Ang. Indeed I will. 

Cruz. The gold of the Busne,—give 

Prec. Pray, do not go. I have much 

me his gold ! 

more to say. 

Prec. I gave the last in charity to- 

Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not 

day. 

leave her. 

Cruz. That is a foolish lie. 

Prec. Some other time, then, when we 

Prec. It is the truth. 

meet again. 

Cruz. Curses upon thee ! Thou art 

You must not go away with words alone. 

not my child ! 

(Gives her a purse.) 

Hast thou given gold away, and not to 

Take this. Would it were more. 

me ? 

Not to thy father ? To whom, then ? 

Ang. I thank you, lady. 

Prec. To one 

Prec. No thanks. To-morrow come 

Who needs it more. 

to me again. 

Cruz. No one can need it more. 

I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last 

Prec. Thou art not poor. 

time. 

Cruz. What, I, who lurk about 

But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, 

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome 

If that can save you from the Count of 

lanes ; 

Lara. 

I, who am housed worse than the galley 

Ang. O my dear lady ! how shall I be 

slave ; 

grateful 

I, who am fed worse than the kennelled 

For so much kindness ? 

hound ; 


# 







THE SPANISH STUDENT. 77 

I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran 

That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 

Cruzado, — 

In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, 

Net poor ! 

Too feeble to resist, and do not force 

Prec. Thou hast a stout heart and 

me 

strong hands. 

To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 

T. hou canst supply thy wants ; what 

I do not love him ! On my knees I beg 

wouldst thou more ? 

thee 

Cruz. The gold of the Busne ! give me 

To use no violence, nor do in haste 

his gold ! 

What cannot be undone ! 

Prec. Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once 

Cruz. 0 child, child, child ! 

for all. 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 

I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 

Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. 

I gave it to thee freely, at all times, 

I will not leave thee here in the great 

Never denied thee ; never had a wish 

city 

But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace ! 

To be a grandee’s mistress. Make thee 

Be merciful, be patient, and erelong 

Thou shalt have more. 

ready 

To go with us ; and until then remem- 

Cruz. And if I have it not, 

ber 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich 

A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit. 

chambers, 

Prec. Woe is me ! 

Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food, 

I have a strange misgiving in my heart ! 

And live in idleness ; but go with me, 

But that one deed of charity I’ll do, 

Dance the Romalis in the public streets, 

Befall what may ; they cannot take that 

And wander wild again o’er field and fell; 

from me. [ Exit. 

For here we stay not long. 

Prec. What ! march again ? 

Scene II. — A room in the Archbishop’s 

Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the 

Palace. The Archbishop and a Car- 

crowded town ! 

DINAL seated. 

I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 
Air, — I want air, and sunshine, and blue 

Arch. Knowing how near it touched 

sky, 

the public morals, 

The feeling of the breeze upon my face, 

And that our age is grown corrupt and 

The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, 

rotten 

And no walls but the far-off mountain 

By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, 

tops. 

Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 

Then I am free and strong, — once more 

In curing the gross surfeit of the time, 

myself, 

By seasonable stop put here in Spain 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 

To bull-fights and lewd dances on the 

Prec. God speed thee on thy march! — 

stage. 

I cannot‘go. 

All this you know. 

Cruz. Remember who I am, and who 

Card. Know and approve. 

thou art ! 

Arch. And further, 

Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 

Bartolorpe Roman — 

The first have been suppressed. 

Prec. (with emotion). O, I beseech 

Card. I trust forever. 

thee ! 

It was a cruel sport. 

If my obedience and blameless life, 

Arch. A barbarous pastime, 

If my humility and meek submission 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 

In all things hitherto, can move in thee 

Most Catholic and Christian. 

One feeling of compassion ; if thou art 

Card. Yet the people 

Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 

Murmur at this ; and, if the public dances 

One look of her who bore me, or one 

Should be condemned upon too slight 

tone 

occasion, 








78 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Worse ills might follow than the ills we 
cure. 

As Panern et Circenses was the cry 
Among the Roman populace of old, 

So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. 
Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 

And therefore have induced your Grace 
to see 

These national dances, ere we interdict 
them. 

{Enter a Servant.) 

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her 
the musicians 

Your Grace was pleased to order, wait 
without. 

Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall 
your eyes behold 

In what angelic yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

{Enter Preciosa, with a mantle thrown 

over her head. She advances slozoly , in 

a modest , half-timid attitude.) 

Card, {aside). O, what a fair and min¬ 
istering angel 

Was lost to heaven when this sweet 
woman fell ! 

Free. {kneeling before the Arch¬ 
bishop). I have obeyed the order 
of your Grace. 

If I intrude upon your better hours, 

I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 

Card, {aside). Her acts are modest, 
and her words discreet ! 

I did not look for this ! Come hither, 
child. 

Is thy name Preciosa ? 

Prec. Thus I am called. 

Card. That is a Gypsy name. Who 
is thy father ? 

Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the 
Cales. 

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of 
that man ; 

He was a bold and reckless character, 

A sun-burnt Ishmael! 

Card. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 

Prec. Yes ; by the Darro’s side 


My childhood passed. I can remember 
still 

The river, and the mountains capped 
with snow ; 

The villages, where, yet a little child, 

I told the traveller’s fortune in the street; 

The smuggler’s horse, the brigand and 
the shepherd; 

The march across the moor ; the halt at 
noon ; 

The red fire of the evening camp, that 
lighted 

The forest where we slept; and, further 
back, 

As in a dream or in some former life, 

Gardens and palace walls. 

Arch. ’T is the Alhambra, 

Under whose towers the Gypsy camp 
was pitched. 

But the time wears ; and we would see 
thee dance. 

Prec. Your Grace shall be obeyed. 

{She lays aside her mantilla. The music 
of the cachucha is played , and the dance 
begins. The ARCHBISHOP and the CAR¬ 
DINAL look on with gravity and an occa¬ 
sional frown ; then ?nake signs to each 
other; and,, as the dance continues , be¬ 
come more and ?norepleased and excited ; 
and at length rise from their seats , thrcnv 
their caps in the air , and applaud vehe¬ 
mently as the scene closes.) 

Scene III. — The Prado. A long ave¬ 
nue of trees leading to the gate of A toe ha. 
On the right the dome and spires of a 
convent. A fountain. Evening. Don 
Carlos and Hypolito meeting. 

Don C. Hola ! good evening, Don 
Hypolito. 

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, 
Don Carlos. 

Some lucky star has led my steps this 
way. 

I was in search of you. 

Don C. Command me always. 

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo’s 
Dreams, 

The miser, who, upon the Day of Judg¬ 
ment, 

Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 













THE SPANISH STUDENT 


79 


Don C. I do ; 

But what of that ? 

Hyp. I am that wretched man. 

Don C. You mean to tell me yours 
have risen empty ? 

Hyp. And amen ! said my Cid the 
Campeador. 

Don C. Pray, how much need you ? 

Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces 

Which, with due interest — 

Don C. {giving his purse). What, am 
I a Jew 

To put my moneys out at usury ? 

Here is my purse. 

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse, 

Made by the hand of some fair Madri- 
lena ; 

Perhaps a keepsake. 

Don C. No, ’t is at your service. 

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, 
good Chrysostom, 

And with thy golden mouth remind me 
often, 

I am the debtor of my friend. 

Don C. But tell me, 

Come you to-day from Alcala ? 

Hyp. This moment. 

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave 
Victorian ? 

Plyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, 
not well. 

A damsel has ensnared him with the 
glances 

Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen 
catch 

A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 

He is in love. 

Don C. And is it faring ill 

To be in love ? 

Hyp. In his case very ill. 

Don C. Why so ? 

Hyp. For many reasons. First and 
foremost, 

Because he is in love with an ideal ; 

A creature of his own imagination ; 

A child of air ; an echo of his heart; 

And, like a lily on a river floating, 

She floats upon the river of his 
thoughts ! 

Don C. A common thing with poets. 
But who is 

This floating lily? For, in fine, some 
woman. 


Some living woman, — not a mere 
ideal, — 

Must wear the outward semblance of his 
thought. 

Who is it ? Tell me. 

Hyp. Well, it is a woman ! 

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart 

He brings forth precious jewels to adorn 
her, 

As pious priests adorn some favorite 
saint 

With gems and gold, until at length she 
gleams 

One blaze of glory. Without these, you 
know, 

And the priest’s benediction, ’t is a doll. 

Don C. Well, well! who is this doll ? 

Hyp. Why, who do you think ? 

Don C. His cousin Violante. 

Hyp. Guess again. 

To ease his laboring heart, in the last 
storm 

He threw her overboard, with all her 
ingots. 

Don C. I cannot guess ; so tell me who 
it is. 

Hyp. Not I. 

Don C. Why not ? 

Hyp. {mysteriously). Why ? Because 
Mari Franca 

Was married four leagues out of Sala¬ 
manca ! 

Don C. Jesting aside, who is it ? 

Hyp. Preciosa. 

Don C. Impossible! The Count of 
Lara tells me 

She is not virtuous. 

Hyp. Did I say she was ? 

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife 

Whose name was Messalina, as I think ; 

Valeria Messalina was her name. 

But hist ! I see him yonder through the 
trees, 

Walking as in a dream. 

Don C. He comes this way. 

Hyp. It has been truly said by some 
wise man, 

That money, grief, and love cannot be 
hidden. 

{Enter Victorian in front.) 

Viet. Where’er thy step has passed is 
holy ground ! 















So THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


These groves are sacred ! I behold thee 
walking 

Under these shadowy trees, where we 
have walked 

At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 
Feel that the place has taken a charm 
from thee, 

And is forever hallowed. 

Hyp. Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly air, 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim 
Commander 

Who comes to sup with Juan in the 
play. 

Don C. What ho ! Victorian ! 

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us ? 

Viet. Hola ! amigos ! Faith, I did 
not see you. 

How fares Don Carlos ? 

Don C. At your service ever. 

Viet. How is that young and green- 
eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of ? 

Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 

Hyp. Ay de mi! 

Viet. You are much to blame for let¬ 
ting her go back. 

A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we some¬ 
times see 
In evening skies. 

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, 
Are thine green ? 

Viet. Not a whit. Why so ? 

Hyp. I think 

The slightest shade of green would be 
becoming. 

For thou art jealous. 

Viet. No, I am not jealous. 

Hyp. Thou shouldst be. 

Viet. Why ? 

Hyp. Because thou art in love. 

And they who are in love are always 
jealous. 

Therefore thou shouldst be. 

Viet. Marry, is that all ? 

Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don 
Carlos. 

Thou sayest I should be jealous ? 

Hyp. Ay, in truth 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy 
guard. 


I hear it whispered that the Count of 
Lara 

Lays siege to the same citadel. 

Viet. Indeed! 

Then he will have his labor for his pains. 
Hyp. He does not think so, and Don 
Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

Viet. How’s this, Don Carlos ? 

Don C. Some hints of it I heard from 
his own lips. 

He spoke but lightly of the lady’s virtue, 
As a gay man might speak. 

Viet. Death and damnation ! 

I ’ll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, 
no ! 

This cannot be. You jest, indeed you 
jest. 

Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, fare¬ 
well ! [Exit. 

Hyp. Now what a coil is here ! The 
Avenging Child 

Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death', 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when he 
rode 

To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 

Were nothing to him ! O hot-headed 
youth ! 

But come; we will not follow. Let us 
join 

The crowd that pours into the Prado. 
There 

We shall find merrier company ; I see 
The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, 

And fifty fans, that beckon me already. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Preciosa’s chamber. She 
is sitting , with a book hi her hand, near 
a table , on which are Jlenvers. A bird 
singing in its cage. The Count OF 
Lara enters behind unperceived. 

Prec. [reads). 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 

Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here. 

I know not what it is makes me so rest¬ 
less ! 








THE SPANISH STUDENT. 81 


(The bird sings.) 

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, 

That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon 
singest, 

Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 

I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day ! 

All are sleeping, weary heart! 

Thou, thou only sleepless art! 

All this throbbing, all this aching, 
Evermore shall keep thee waking, 

For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 

Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks 

More hearts are breaking in this v r orld 
of ours 

Than one would say. In distant villages 

And solitudes remote, where winds have 
wafted 

The barbed seeds of love, or birds of pas¬ 
sage 

Scattered them in their flight, do they 
take root, 

And grow in silence, and in silence per¬ 
ish. 

Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? 

Or who takes note of every flower that 
dies ? 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come. 

Dolores ! 

(Turns to lay down her book, and perceives 
the Count.) 



Ha ! 

Lara. 

Senora, pardon me ! 

Prec. 

How’s this ? Dolores ! 

Lara. 

Pardon me — 

Prec. 

Dolores ! 

Lara. 

Be not alarmed ; I found no one 


in waiting. 


If I have been too bold — 

Prec. {turning her back upon him). You 
are too bold ! 

Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 

Lara. My dear lady, 

First hear me ! I beseech you, let me 
speak ! 

’T is for your good I come. 

Prec. {turning toward him with indig¬ 
nation). Begone ! begone! 

You are the Count of Lara, but your 
deeds 


Would make the statues of your ances¬ 
tors 

Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian 
honor, 

Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong ? 

O shame ! shame ! shame ! that you, s> 
nobleman, 

Should be so little noble in your thoughts 
As to send jewels here to win my love, 
And think to buy my honor with your 
gold ! 

I I have no words to tell you how I scorn 
you ! 

Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to 
me ! 

Begone, I say ! 

Lara. Be calm ; I will not harm you. 

Prec. Because you dare not. 

Lara. I dare anything ! 

Therefore beware ! You are deceived in 
me. 

In this false world, we do not always 
know 

Who are our friends and who our ene¬ 
mies. 

We all have enemies, and all need 
friends. 

Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 
Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 

Prec. If to this 

I owe the honor of the present visit, 

You might have spared the coming. 
Having spoken, 

Once more I beg you, leave me to my¬ 
self. 

Lara. I thought it but a friendly part 
to tell you 

What strange reports are current here in 
town. 

For my own self, I do not credit them ; 
But there are many who, not knowing 
you, 

Will lend a readier ear. 

Prec. There was no need 

That you should take upon yourself the 
duty 

Of telling me these tales. 

Lara. Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy with your name. 

Prec. Alas! 

I’ve no protectors. I am a poor girl, 
Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 








83 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


They wound me, yet I cannot shield my¬ 
self. 

I give no cause for these reports. I live 

Retired ; am visited by none. 

Lara. By none ? 

O, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! 

Free. How mean you ? 

Lara. Nay, nay ; I will not wound your 
gentle soul 

By the report of idle tales. 

Free. Speak out ! 

What are these idle tales? You need 
not spare me. 

Lara. I will deal frankly with you. 
Pardon me ; 

This window, as I think, looks toward 
the street, 

And this into the Prado, does it not ? 

In yon high house, beyond the garden 
wall, — 

You see the roof there just above the 
trees, — 

There lives a friend, who told me yes¬ 
terday, 

That on a certain night, — be not offended 

If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 

Climb to your chamber window. You 
are silent! 

I would not blame you, being young and 
fair — 

{He tries to embrace her. She starts back , 

and draws a dagger from her bosom). 

Free. Beware ! beware ! I am a Gypsy 
girl! 

Lay not your hand upon me. One step 
nearer 

And I will strike ! 

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. 

Fear not. 

Prec. I do not fear. I have a heart 

In whose strength I can trust. 

Lara. Listen to me. 

I come here as your friend, — I am your 
friend, — 

And by a single word can put a stop 

To all those idle tales, and tnake your 
name 

Spotless as lilies are. Here on my 
knees, 

Fair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 

I love you even to madness, and that 
love 


Has driven me to break the rules of 
custom, 

And force myself unasked into your 
presence. 

(Victorian enters behind.) 

Prec. Rise, Count of Lara ! That is 
not the place 

For such as you are. It becomes you 
not 

To kneel before me. I am strangely 
moved 

To see one of your rank thus low and 
humbled ; 

For your sake I will put aside all anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, 
And as my heart now prompts me. I no 
more 

Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman’s 
glory, 

I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 

Lara. O sweet angel! 

Prec. Ay, in truth, 

Far better than you love yourself or me. 

Lara. Give me some sign of this, — 
the slightest token. 

Let me but kiss your hand ! 

Prec. Nay, come no nearer ! 

The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not deceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not 
such 

As you would offer me. For you come 
here 

To take from me the only thing I have, 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have 
friends 

And kindred, and a thousand pleasant 
hopes 

That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one 
treasure, 

And you would take that from me, and 
for what ? 

To flatter your own vanity, mid make me 
What you would most despise. O sir, 
such love, 

That seeks to harm me, cannot be true 
love. 










THE SPAN/SH STUDENT. 83 


Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste de¬ 
sires, 

And bids you look into your heart, and 
see 

How you do wrong that better nature in 
you, 

And grieve your soul with sin. 

Lara. I swear to you, 

I would not harm you ; I would only love 
you. 

I would not take your honor, but restore 

it, 

And in return I ask but some slight mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love me, 
As you confess you do, O let me thus 
With this embrace — 

Viet. (rushing forward). Hold ! hold ! 
This is too much. 

What means this outrage ? 

Lara. First, what right have you 

To question thus a nobleman of Spain ? 
Viet. I too am noble, and you are no 
more ! 

Out of my sight ! 

Lara. Are you the master here ? 

Viet. Ay, here and elsewhere, when 
the wrong of others. 

Gives me the right ! 

Free, (to Lara). Go ! I beseech you, go ! 
Viet. I shall have business with you, 
Count, anon ! 

Lara. You cannot come too soon ! 

[ Exit. 

Prec. Victorian ! 

O we have been betrayed ! 

Viet. Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 

’T is I have been betrayed, not we ! — not 
we ! 

Prec. Dost thou imagine — 

Viet. I imagine nothing ; 

[ see how’t is thou wildest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

Prec. O speak not in that tone ! 

It wounds me deeply. 

Viet. ’T was not meant to flatter. 

Prec. Too well thou knowest the pres¬ 
ence of that man 
Is hateful to me ! 

Viet. Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to him, when he told his love. 


Prec. I did not heed his words. 

Viet. Indeed thou didst, 

And answeredst them with love. 

Prcc. Hadst thou heard all — 

Viet. I heard enough. 

Prcc. Be not so angry with me. 

Viet. I am not angry ; I am very 
calm. 

. Prec. If thou wilt let me speak — 

Viet. Nay, say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou art false ! 

I do not like these Gypsy marriages ! 
Where is the ring I gave thee ? 

Prec. In my casket. 

Viet. There let it rest ! I would not 
have thee wear it: 

I thought thee spotless, and thou art 
polluted ! 

Prec. I call the Heavens to witness — 
Viet. Nay, nay, nay ! 

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy 
lips ! 

They are forsworn ! 

Prec. Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 

Viet. I gave up all for thee ; myself, 
my fame, 

My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 
And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go 
on ! 

Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara’s knee, 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was ! 

(He casts her from him and rushes out.) 

Prec. And this from thee ! 

(Scene closes.) 

Scene V. — The Count of Lara’s 
rooms. Enter the Count. 

Lara. There’s nothing in this world 
so sweet as love, 

And next to love the sweetest thing is 
hate ! 

I’ve learned to hate, and therefore am 
revenged. 

A silly girl to play the prude with me ! 
The fire that I have kindled — 

(Enter Francisco.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan? 










84 THE SPANISH STUDENT 


Fran. Good, my lord ; 

He will be present. 

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos ? 

Fran. Was not at home. 

Lara. How with the rest ? 

Fran. I’ve found 

The men you wanted. They will all be 
there, 

And at the given signal raise a whirl¬ 
wind 

Of such discordant noises, that the dance 

Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Pre- 
ciosa, 

What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall 
not close 

Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak 
and sword. \Exeunt. 

Scene VI. — A retired spot beyond the 

city gates. Enter Victorian and Hy- 

POL1TO. 

Viet. O shame ! O shame ! Why do 
I walk abroad 

By daylight, when the very sunshine 
mocks me, 

And voices, and familiar sights and 
sounds 

Cry, “ Hide thyself! ” O what a thin 
partition 

Doth shut out from the curious world the 
knowledge 

Of evil deeds that have been done in 
darkness ! 

Disgrace has many tongues. My fears 
are windows, 

Through which all eyes seem gazing. 
Every face 

Expresses some suspicion of my shame, 

And in derision seems to smile at me ! 

Hyp. Did I not caution thee ? Did I 
not tell thee 

I was but half persuaded of her virtue ? 

Viet. And yet, Hypolito, we may be 
wrong, 

We may be over-hasty in condemning ! 

The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 

Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, lov¬ 
ing him. 

Viet. She does not love him ! ’T is for 
gold ! for gold ! 


Ifyp. Ay, but remember, in the public 
streets 

He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave 
him, 

A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 

Viet. She had that ring from me! 
God ! she is false ! 

But I will be revenged ! The hour is 
passed. 

Where stays the coward ? 

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward ; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 

I’ve seen him play with swords ; it is his 
pastime. 

And therefore be not over-confident, 

He ’ll task thy skill anon. Look, here he 
comes. 

{Enter Lara, followed by Lrancisco.) 

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. 

Hyp. Good evening, Count. 

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long 
in waiting. 

Viet. Not long, and yet too long. Are 
you prepared ? 

Lara. I am. 

Llyp. It grieves me much to 

see this quarrel 

Between you, gentlemen. Is there no 
way 

Left open to accord this difference, 

But you must make one with your 
swords ? 

Viet. No ! none ! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 

Stand not between me and my foe. Too 
long 

Our tongues have spoken. Let these 
tongues of steel 

End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir 
Count ! 

(They fight. Victorian disarms the 
Count.) 

Your life is mine; and what shall now 
withhold me 

Prom sending your vile soul to its ac¬ 
count ? 

Lara. Strike ! strike ! 

Viet. You are disarmed. I will not 
kill you. 

I will not murder you. Take up your 
sword. 








THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


35 


(Francisco hands the Count his sword ,, 
and Hypolito interposes.) 

Hyp. Enough ! Let it end here ! The 
Count of Lara 

Has shown himself a brave man, and 
Victorian 

A generous one, as ever. Now be 
friends. 

Put up your swords ; for, to speak frankly 
to you, 

Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 

To move you to extremes. 

Lata. I am content. 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, 

Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to 
this. 

Viet. Nay, something more than that. 

Lara. I understand you. 

Therein I did not mean to cross your 
path. 

To me the door stood open, as to others. 

But, had I known the girl belonged to 
you, 

Never would I have sought to win her 
from you. 

The truth stands now revealed ; she has 
been false 

To both of us. 

Viet. Ay, false as hell itself! 

Lara. In truth, I did not seek her ; 
she sought me; 

And told me how to win her, telling me 

The hours when she was oftenest left 
alone. 

Viet. Say, can you prove this to me ? 
O, pluck out 

These awful doubts, that goad me into 
madness ! 

Let me know all ! all ! all ! 

Lara. You shall know all. 

Here is my page, who was the messenger 

Between us. Question him. Was it not 
so, 

Francisco ? 

Fran. Ay, my lord. 

Lara. If further proof 

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave 
me. 

Viet. Pray let me see that ring ? It is 
the same ! 

( Throws it upon the ground and tramples 
upon it.) 


Thus may she perish who once wore that 
ring ! 

Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus 
trample 

Her memory in the dust! O Count of 
Lara, 

We both have been abused, been much 
abused ! 

I thank you for your courtesy and frank¬ 
ness. 

Though, like the surgeon’s hand, yours 
gave me pain, 

Yet it has cured my blindness, and I 
thank you. 

I now can see the folly I have done, 
Though’t is, alas ! too late. So fare you 
well! 

To-night I leave this hateful town for¬ 
ever. 

Regard me as your friend. Once more, 
farewell! 

Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. 

[.Exeunt Victorian and Hypolito. 

Lara. Farewell ! farewell! farewell ! 
Thus have I cleared the field of my 
worst foe ! 

I have none else to fear; the fight is 
done, 

The citadel is stormed, the victory won ! 

[Exit with Francisco. 

Scene VII.— A lane in the suburbs. 

Night. Enter Cruzado and Bartol- 

ome. 

Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedi¬ 
tion failed. But where wast thou for the 
most part ? 

Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, 
near San Ildefonso. 

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back 
with thee ? Didst thou rob no one ? 

Bart. There was no one to rob, save 
a party of students from Segovia, who 
looked as if they would rob us ; and a 
jolly little friar, who had nothing in his 
pockets but a missal and a loaf of 
bread. 

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee 
back to Madrid ? 

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee 
here ? 









86 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Cruz. Freciosa. 

Bart. And she brings me back. Hast 
thou forgotten thy promise ? 

Cruz. The two years are not passed 
yet. Wait patiently. The girl shall be 
thine. 

Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. 
Cruz. That is nothing. 

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him, — 
the son of a Busne harlot. He goes in 
and out, and speaks with her alone, and I 
must stand aside, and wait his pleasure. 

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt 
have thy revenge. When the time 
comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. 
Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt 
not find her. She dances at the play to¬ 
night. 

Bart. No matter. Show me the 
house. \_Exeunt. 

Scene VIII. — The Theatre. The orches¬ 
tra plays the cachucha. Sound of casta¬ 
nets behind the scenes. The curtain rises , 
and discovers Preciosa in the attitude 
of commencing the dance. The cachucha. 
I'umult; hisses ; cries of “ Brava ! ” 
and “ Afuera ! ” She falters and pauses. 
The music stops. General confusion. 
Preciosa faints. 

Scene IX. — The Count of Lara’s 
chambers. Lara and his friends at 
supper. 

Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many 
thanks ! 

You have stood by me bravely in this 
matter. 

Pray fill your glasses. 

Don f. Did you mark, Don Luis, 
How pale she looked, when first the 
noise began, 

And then stood still, with her large eyes 
dilated ! 

Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her 
bosom 

Tumultuous as the sea ! 

Don L. I pitied her. 

Lara. Her pride is humbled ; and this 
very night 
I mean to visit her. 


Don J. Will you serenade her ? 

Lara. No music ! no more music ! 
Don L. Why not music ? 

It softens many hearts. 

Lara. Not in the humor 

She now is in. Music would madden 
her. 

Don y. Try golden cymbals. 

Doji L. Yes, try Don Dinero ; 

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 
Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have 
bribed her maid. 

But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 

A bumper and away; for the night 
wears. 

A health to Preciosa. 

(They rise and drink.) 

All. Preciosa. 

Lara [holding up his glass). Thou 
bright and flaming minister of 
Love ! 

Thou wonderful magician ! who hast 
stolen 

My secret from me, and ’mid sighs of 
passion 

Caught from my lips, with red and fiery 
tongue, 

Her precious name ! O nevermore 
henceforth 

Shall mortal lips press thine ; and never¬ 
more 

A mortal name be whispered in thine 
ear. 

Go ! keep my secret! 

[Drinks and dashes the goblet dozvn.) 
Don y. Ite ! missa est! 

[Scene closes.) 

Scene X. — Street and garden wall. 
Night. Enter Cruzado and Bartol- 
ome. 

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and 
above it, yonder, is her house. The 
window in which thou seest the light is 
her window. But we will not go in now. 
Bart. Why not ? 

Cruz. Because she is not at home. 
Bart. No matter; we can wait. But 
how is this ? The gate is bolted. 








77 /A' SPANISH STUDENT. 


{Sound of guitars and voices in a neigh¬ 
boring street.) Hark! There comes her 
lover with his infernal serenade ! Hark ! 

SONG. 

Good night! Good night, beloved ! 

I come to watch o’er thee ! 

To be near thee, — to be near thee, 
Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning, 

Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 

Good night! Good night, beloved, 
While I count the weary hours. 

Cruz. They are not coming this way. 
Bart. Wait, they begin again. ' 

SONG [coming nearer). 

Ah ! thou moon that shinest 
Argent-clear above ! 

All night long enlighten 
My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 

All night long enlighten ! 

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this 
way ! 

Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down 
the street. 

SONG ( dying away). 

The nuns in the cloister 
Sang to each other ; 

For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 

Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 

Bart. Follow that! follow that! 

Come with me. Puss ! puss ! 

{Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the 
Count of Lara and gentlemen, with 
Francisco.) 

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, 
Francisco, 

And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, 
and over. 

Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me 
scale 

Yon balcony. How now? Her light 
still burns. 


87 


Move warily.. Make fast the gate, Fran¬ 
cisco. 

{Exeunt. Re-enter Cruzado and Bar- 
tolome.) 

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark ! 
I hear them in the garden. (Tries the 
gate.) Bolted again ! Vive Cristo ! Fol¬ 
low me over the wall. 

( They climb the zuall.) 

Scene XI. — Preciosa’s bedchamber. 
Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm¬ 
chair , in an undress. DOLORES watch¬ 
ing her. 

Dol. She sleeps at last! 

{Opens the window and listens.) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 

Prec. {in her sleep). I must go hence ! 
Give me my cloak ! 

Dol. He comes ! I hear his footsteps ! 
Prec. Go tell them that I cannot dance 
to-night; 

I am too ill! Look at me ! See the fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must go 
hence. 

I am too weak to dance. 

{Signal from the garden.) 

Dol. {from the window). Who’s there ? 
Voice [from below). A friend. 

Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I. 
come. 

Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do 
not harm me ! 

Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman 
thus ! 

Be you but kind, I will do all things for 
you. 

I’m ready now, — give me my castanets. 
Where is Victorian ? Oh, those hateful 
lamps ! 

They glare upon me like an evil eye. 

I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock 
at me ! 

They hiss at me like serpents! Save 
me ! save me ! 

{She wakes.) 

How late is it, Dolores ? 








88 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


Dol. . It is midnight. 

Prec. We must be patient. Smooth 
this pillow for me. 

{She sleeps again. Noise fro?)i the garden, 
and voices.) 

Voice. Muera! 

Another Voice. O villains ! villains! 
Lara. So ! have at you ! 

Voice. Take that! 

Lara. O, I am wounded ! 

Dol. {shutting the window). Jesu 
Maria! 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — A cross-road through a wood. 
In the background a distant village 
spire. Victorian and Hypolito, 
as travelling students , with guitars , 
sitting under the trees. Hypolito plays 
and sings. 

SONG. 

Ah, Love ! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Enemy 

Of all that mankind may not rue ! 

Most untrue 

To him who keeps most faith with thee. 
Woe is me ! 

The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Viet. Yes, Love is ever busy with his 
shuttle, 

Is ever weaving into life’s dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes 
Arcadian; 

Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 

Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arca¬ 
dian pastures, 

Thou hast run thy noble head against the 
wall. 

SONG {continued). 

Thy deceits 

Give us clearly to comprehend, 

Whither tend 

All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 


They are cheats, 

Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love ! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Viet. A very pretty song. I thank thee 
for it. 

Hyp. It suits thy case. 

Viet. Indeed, I think it does. 

What wise man wrote it ? 

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Viet. In truth, a pretty song. 

Hyp. With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in ear¬ 
nest 

Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

Viet. I will forget her ! All dear rec¬ 
ollections 

Pressed in my heart, like flowers within 
a book, 

Shall be torn out, and scattered to the 
winds ! 

I will forget her ! But perhaps here¬ 
after, 

When she shall learn how heartless is the 
world, 

A voice within her will repeat my name, 

And she will say, “ He was indeed my 
friend ! ” 

O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, 

That the loud march, the deafening beat 
of drums, 

The shattering blast of the brass-throated 
trumpet, 

The din of arms, the onslaught and the 
storm, 

And a swift death, might make me deaf 
forever 

To the upbraidings of this foolish heart! 

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart up¬ 
braid no more ! 

To conquer love, one need but will to 
conquer. 

Viet. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 

I throw into Oblivion’s sea the sword 

That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 

With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will 
not sink. 

There rises from below a hand that grasps 
it, 

And waves it in the air; and wailing 
voices 

Are heard along the shore. 











THE SPANISH STUDENT. 89 

Hyp. And yet at last 

Who, struggling to climb up into the 

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 

boat, 

1 his is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 

Has both his bruised and bleeding hands 

Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 

cut off, 

10 make them jog on merrily with life’s 

And sinks again into the weltering sea, 

burden, 

Helpless and hopeless ! 

Like a dead weight thou hangest on the 

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. 

wheels. 

The strength of thine own arm is thy 

Thou art too young, too full of lusty 

salvation. 

health 

Above thy head, through rifted clouds, 

To talk of dying. 

there shines 

Viet. Yet I fain would die ! 

A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy 

To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 

star ! 

To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild 

[Sound of a village bell in the distance.) 

impulse, 

Viet. Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 

And struggle after something we have not 

Ringing the chimes from yonder village 

And cannot have ; the effort to be strong ; 

belfry ! 

And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and 

A solemn sound, that echoes far and 

smile, 

wide 

While secret wounds do bleed beneath 

Over the red roofs of the cottages, 

our cloaks ; 

And bids the laboring hind a-field, the 

All this the dead feel not, — the dead 

shepherd, 

alone ! 

Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 

Would I were with them ! 

And all the crowd in village streets, stand 

Hyp. We shall all be soon. 

still, 

Viet. It cannot be too soon ; for I am 

And breathe a prayer unto the blessed 

weary 

Virgin ! 

Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 

Hyp. Amen ! amen ! Not half a league 

Where strangers walk as friends, and 

from hence 

friends as strangers ; 

The village lies. 

Where whispers overheard betray false 

Viet. This path will lead us to it, 

hearts ; 

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows 

And through the mazes of the crowd we 

sail 

chase 

Across the running sea, now green, now 

Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and 

blue, 

beckons, 

And, like an idle mariner on the main, 

And cheats us with fair words, only to 

Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten 

leave us 

on. [ Exeunt. 

A mockery and a jest; maddened, — con¬ 
fused, — 

Scene II. — Public square in the village of 

Not knowing friend from foe. 

Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still toll - 

Hyp. Why seek to know ? 

ing. A crowd of villagers, with their hats 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 

in their hands , as if in prayer. Infront, 

Take each fair mask for what it gives 

a group of Gypsies. The bell rings a 

itself, 

merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. Enter 

Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Pancho, follcrwed by Pedro Crespo. 

Viet. I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no 

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and 

longer 

Gypsy thieves ! 

Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, 

Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! 

Much like a poor and shipwrecked mar- 

Pedro C. Keep silence all! I have an 

iner, 

edict here 







90 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


From our most gracious lord, the King 
of Spain, 

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 

Which I shall publish in the market¬ 
place. 

Open your ears and listen ! 

(Enter the Padre Cura at the door of his 
cottage.) 

Padre Cura, 

Good day ! and, pray you, hear this edict 
read. 

Padre C. Good day, and God be with 
you ! Pray, what is it ? 

Pedro C. An act of banishment against 
the Gypsies ! 

{Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) 

Pancho. Silence ! 

Pedro C. {reads). “ I hereby order and 
command, 

That the Egyptian and Chaldean stran¬ 
gers, 

Known by the name of Gypsies, shall 
henceforth 

Be banished from the realm, as vaga¬ 
bonds 

And beggars ; and if, after seventy days, 

Any be found within our kingdom’s 
bounds, 

They shall receive a hundred lashes 
each ; 

The second time, shall have their ears 
cut off; 

The third, be slaves for life to him who 
takes them, 

Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the 
King.” 

Vile miscreants and creatures unbap¬ 
tized ! 

You hear the law ! Obey and disap¬ 
pear ! 

Pancho. And if in seventy days you are 
not gone, 

Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 

( The Gypsies go out in confusion , showing 

signs of fear and discontent. Pancho 

follows.) 

Padre C. A righteous law ! A very 
righteous law ! 

Pray you, sit down. 

Pedro C. I thank you heartily. 


{They seat themselves on a bench at the 

Padre Cura’s door. Sound of guitars 

heard at a distance , approaching during 

the dialogue which follcnvs.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura, —you know all 
things, — 

How came these Gypsies into Spain ? 

Padre C. Why, look you : 

They came with Hercules from Palestine, 

And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir 
Alcalde, 

As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 

And, look you, as P'ray Jayme Bleda says, 

There are a hundred marks to prove a 
Moor 

Is not a Christian, so’t is with the Gyp¬ 
sies. 

They never marry, never go to mass, 

Never baptize their children, nor keep ’ 
Lent, 

Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — 
nor — 

Pedro C. Good reasons, good, sub¬ 
stantial reasons all ! 

No matter for the other ninety-five. 

They should be burnt, I see it plain 
enough, 

They should be burnt. 

{Enter Victorian and Hypolito 
playing.) 

Padre C. And pray, whom have we 
here ? 

Pedro C. More vagrants ! By Saint 
Lazarus, more vagrants ! 

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen ! Is 
this Guadarrama ? 

Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good 
evening to you. 

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the 
village ; 

And, judging from your dress and rever¬ 
end mien, 

You must be he. 

Padre C. I am. Pray, what’s your 
pleasure ? 

Hyp. We are poor students, travelling 
in vacation. 

You know this mark ? 

(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat¬ 
band.) 






THE SPANISH STUDENT. 91 


Padre C. [joyfully ). Ay, know it, and 
have worn it. 

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters ! by the 
mass ! The worst of vagrants ! 

And there’s no law against them. Sir, 
your servant. [ Exit. 

Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 

Hyp. Padre Cura, 

From the first moment I beheld your 
face, 

I said within myself, “ This is the man ! ” 
There is a certain something in your 
looks, 

A certain scholar-like and studious some¬ 
thing, — 

You understand, —which cannot ke mis¬ 
taken ; 

Which marks you as a very learned man, 
In fine, as one of us. 

Viet, (aside). What impudence ! 

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my 
companion, 

“ That is the Padre Cura; mark my 
words ! ” 

Meaning your Grace. “ The other man,” 
said I, 

“ Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, 
Must be the sacristan.” 

Padre C. Ah ! said you so ? 

Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the al¬ 
calde ! 

Hyp. Indeed ! you much astonish me ! 
His air 

Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde’s should be. 

Padre C. That is true. 

He’s out of humor with some vagrant 
Gypsies, 

Who have their camp here in the neigh¬ 
borhood. 

There’s nothing so undignified as anger. 

Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our 
boldness, 

If, from his well-known hospitality, 

We crave a lodging for the night. 

Padre C. I pray you ! 

You do me honor ! I am but too happy 
To have such guests beneath my humble 
roof. 

It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak with scholars; and Emollit 
mores , 

Nee sinit esse feros , Cicero says. 


Hyp. ’T is Ovid, is it not ? 

Padre C. No, Cicero. 

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are 
the better scholar. 

Now what a dunce was I to think it 
Ovid ! 

But hang me if it is not ! (Aside.) 

Padre C. Pass this way. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 

Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. 

[. Exeunt\ 

Scene III. — A room in the Padre 

Cura’s house. Enter the Padre and 

Hypolito. 

Padre C. So then, Senor, you come 
from Alcala. 

I am glad to hear it. It was there I 
studied. 

Hyp. And left behind an honored 
name, no doubt. 

How may I call your Grace ? 

Padre C. Geronimo 

De Santillana, at your Honor’s service. 

Hyp. Descended from the Marquis 
Santillana ? 

From the distinguished poet ? 

Padre C. From the Marquis, 

Not from the poet. 

Hyp. Why, they were the same. 

Let me embrace you ! O some lucky star 

Has brought me hither! Yet once 
more ! — once more ! 

Your name is ever green in Alcala, 

And our professor, when we are unruly, 

Will shake his hoary head, and say, 
“ Alas ! 

It was not so in Santillana’s time ! ” 

Padre C. I did not think my name re¬ 
membered there. 

Hyp. More than remembered ; it is 
idolized. 

Padre C. Of what professor speak you ? 

Hyp. Timoneda. 

Padre C. I don’t remember any Timo¬ 
neda. 

Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose 
beetling brow 

O’erhangs the rushing current of his 
speech 

As rocks o’er rivers hang. Have you 
forgotten ? 








92 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those 
were pleasant days, 

Those college days ! I ne’er shall see 
the like ! 

I had not buried then so many hopes ! 

I had not buried then so many friends ! 

I’ve turned my back on what was then 
before me ; 

And the bright faces of my young com¬ 
panions 

Are wrinkled like my own, or are no 
more. 

Do you remember Cueva ? 

Hyp. Cueva ? Cueva ? 

Padre C. Fool that I am ! He was be¬ 
fore your time. 

You ’re a mere boy, and I am an old man. 

Hyp. I should not like to try my 
strength with you. 

Padre C. Well, well. But I forget; 
you must be hungry. 

Martina ! ho ! Martina ! ’T is my niece. 

{Enter Martina.) 

Hyp. You may be proud of such a 
niece as that. 

I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. 

{Aside.) 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 

Your servant, fair Martina. 

Mart. Servant, sir. 

Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. 
See thou to it. 

Let us have supper. 

Mart. ’T will be ready soon. 

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my 
Val-de-Penas 

Out of the cellar. Stay; I ’ll go myself. 

Pray you, Senor, excuse me. [Exit. 

Plyp. Hist ! Martina ! 

One word with you. Bless me ! what 
handsome eyes ! 

To-day there have been Gypsies in the 
village. 

Is it not so ? 

Mart. There have been Gypsies here. 

Hyp. Yes, and they told your fortune. 

Mart, {embarrassed). Told my for¬ 
tune ? 

Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. 
Give me your hand. 

I ’ll tell you what they said. They said, 
— they said, 


The shepherd boy that loved you was a 
clown, 

And him you should not marry. Was it 
not ? 

Mart, {surprised). How know you 
that ? 

Hyp. O, I know more than that. 

What a soft, little hand ! and then they 
said, 

A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry 
you, 

And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 

(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter 
Victorian, with a letter.) 

Viet. The muleteer has come. 

Hyp. So soon ? 

Viet. I found him 

Sitting at supper by the tavern door, 

And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 
His whole arm’s length, drinking the 
blood-red wine. 

Hyp. What news from Court ? 

Viet. He brought this letter 

only. {/leads.) 

O cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 
That lying tongue deceive me! Pre- 
ciosa, 

Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 

Hyp. What news is this, that makes 
thy cheek turn pale, 

And thy hand tremble ? 

Viet. O, most infamous ! 

The Count of Lara is a worthless villain ! 

Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. 

Viet. He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my soul, 
The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, 
He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 
She has been hissed and hooted from the 
stage, 

Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 
Too foul to speak of; and, once more a 
beggar, 

She roams a wanderer over God’s green 
earth, 

Housing with Gypsies ! 

Plyp. To renew again 

The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd 
swains 







THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


93 


Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil’s 
Diana. 

Redit et Virgo ! 

Viet. Dear Hypolito, 

How have I wronged that meek, confid¬ 
ing heart ! 

I will go seek for her ; and with my tears 
Wash out the wrong I ’ve done her ! 

Hyp. O beware ! 

Act not that folly o’er again. 

Viet. Ay, folly, 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness, — I still love 
her ! 

Still fondly love her ! 

[Enter the Padre Cura.) ' 

Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, 

Who are these Gypsies in the neighbor¬ 
hood ? 

Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his 
crew. 

Viet. Kind Heaven, 

I thank thee ! She is found ! is found 
again ! 

Hyp. And have they with them a pale, 
beautiful girl, 

Called Preciosa ? 

Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, 

He is half famished with this long day’s 
journey. 

Padre C. Then, pray you, come this 
way. The supper waits. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — A post-house on the road to 
Segovia, not far from the vdlage of Gua- 
darrama. Enter Chispa, cracking a 
whip and singing the Cachucha. 

Chispa. Halloo ! Don Fulano ! Let us 
have horses, and quickly. Alas, poor 
Chispa ! what a dog’s life dost thou lead ! 
I thought, when I left my old master 
Victorian, the student, to serve my new 
master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, 
too, should lead the life of a gentleman; 
should go to bed early, and get up late. 
For when the abbot plays cards, what can 
you expect of the friars ? But, in running 
away from the thunder, I have run into 


the lightning. Here I am in hot chase 
after my master and his Gypsy girl. And 
a good beginning of the week it is, as he 
said who was hanged on Monday morn¬ 
ing. 

[Enter Don Carlos.) 

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet ? 

Chispa. I should think not, for the 
hostler seems to be asleep. Ho ! within 
there ! Horses ! horses ! horses ! [He 
knocks at the gate with his ?vhip, and enter 
Mosquito, pi it ting on his jacket .) 

Mosq. Pray have a little patience. I ’m 
not a musket. 

Chispa. Health and pistareens ! I’m 
glad to see you come on dancing, padre ! 
Pray, what’s the news ? 

Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses ; 
because there are none. 

Chispa. Cachiporra ! Throw that bone 
to another dog. Do I look like your 
aunt ? 

Mosq. No ; she has a beard. 

Chispa. Go to ! go to ! 

Mosq. Are you from Madrid ? 

Chispa. Yes ; and going to Estrama- 
dura. Get us horses. 

Mosq. What’s the news at Court ? 

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that 
I am going to set up a coach, and I have 
already bought the whip. 

[Strikes him round the legs.) 

Mosq. Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Don C. Enough of this folly. Let us 
have horses. [Gives money to Mosquito.) 
It is almost dark ; and we are in haste. 
But tell me, has a band of Gypsies passed 
this way of late ? 

Mosq. Yes ; and they are still in the 
neighborhood. 

Don C. And where ? 

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the 
woods near Guadarrama. [Exit. 

Don C. Now this is lucky. We will 
visit the Gypsy camp. 

Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil 
eye ? Have you a stag’s horn with you ? 

Don C. Fear not. We will pass the 
night at the village. 

Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of 
Hernan Daza, nine under one blanket. 










94 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Don C. I hope we may find the Pre- 
ciosa among them. 

Chispa. Among the Squires ? 

Don C. No; among the Gypsies, 
blockhead ! 

Chispa. I hope we may; for we are 
giving ourselves trouble enough on her 
account. Don’t you think so ? How¬ 
ever, there is no catching trout without 
wetting one’s trousers. Yonder come the 
horses. \Exe21nt. 

Scene V. — The Gypsy camp in the forest. 
Night. Gypsies working at a forge. 
Others playing cards by the fire-light. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

On the top of a mountain I stand, 

With a crown of red gold in my hand, 
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, 
flee ? 

O how from their fury shall I flee ? 

First Gypsy {playing). Down with 
your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down 
with your John-Dorados, and let us make 
an end. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing ). 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran : 

God send the Gypsy lassie here, 

And not the Gypsy man. 

First Gypsy {playing). There you are in 
your morocco ! 

Second Gypsy. One more game. The 
Alcalde’s doves against the Padre Cura’s 
new moon. 

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

At midnight, when the moon began 
To show her silver flame, 

There came to him no Gypsy man, 

The Gypsy lassie came. 

{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and 
Rastilleros; leave work, leave play; 
listen to your orders for the night. 
{Speaking to the right.) You will get you 


to the village, mark you, by the stone 
cross. 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz, {to the left). And you, by the 
pole with the hermit’s head upon it. 
Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets 
are out, in with you, and be busy with the 
ten commandments, under the sly, and 
Saint Martin asleep. D’ ye hear ? 
Gypsies. Ay! 

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if 
you see a goblin or a papagayo, take to 
your trampers. Vineyards and Dancing 
John is the word. Am I comprehended ? 
Gypsies. Ay ! ay ! 

Cruz. Away, then ! 

{Exeunt severally. Cruzado walks up the 
stage , and disappears among the trees. 
Enter Preciosa.) 

Prec. How strangely gleams through 
the gigantic trees 

The red light of the forge ! Wild, beckon¬ 
ing shadows 

Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 
Rising and bending with the flickering 
flame, 

Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to 
each other, 

My brightest hopes giving dark fears a 
being 

As the light does the shadow. Woe is 
me ! 

How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 

(Bartolome rushes in.) 

Bart. Ho ! Preciosa ! 

Prec. O Bartolome ! 

Thou here ? 

Bart. Lo ! I am here. 

Prec. Whence comest thou ? 

Bart. From the rough ridges of the 
wild Sierra, 

From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, 
thirst, 

And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the 
sheepfold 

Come I for thee, my lamb. 

Prec. O touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara’s blood is on thy 
hands! 








THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


95 


The Count of Lara’s curse is on thy 
soul ! 

Do not come near me ! Pray, begone 
from here ! 

Thou art in danger ! They have set a 
price 

Upon thy head ! 

Bart. Ay, and I ’ve wandered long 
Among the mountains; and for many 
days 

Have seen no human face, save the rough 
swineherd’s. 

The wind and rain have been my sole 
companions. 

I shouted to them from the rocks thy 
name, ( 

And the loud echo sent it back to me, 

Till I grew mad. I could not stay from 
thee, 

And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 

Prec. Betray thee ? I betray thee ? 

Bart. Preciosa! 

I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave 
death ! 

Fly with me o’er the borders of this 
realm ! 

Fly with me ! 

Prec. Speak of that no more. I cannot. 
I’m thine no longer. 

Bart. O, recall the time 

When we were children ! how we played 
together, 

How we grew up together; how we 
plighted 

Our hearts unto each other, even in child¬ 
hood ! 

Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 
I ’m hunted from the kingdom, like a 
wolf! 

Fulfil thy promise. 

Prec. ’T was my father’s promise, 

Not mine. I never gave my heart to 
thee, 

Nor promised thee my hand ! 

Bart. False tongue of woman ! 

And heart more false ! 

Piec. Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never loved 
thee; 

I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst 
thou with me, 


A feeble girl, who have not long to live, 
Whose heart is broken ? Seek another 
wife, 

Better than I, and fairer ; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange 
her from thee. 

Thou art unhappy in this hopeless pas¬ 
sion. 

I never sought thy love ; never did aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart, 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of 
blood. 

Beware, beware of that. 

Bart. For thy dear sake 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me 
patience. 

Prec. Then take this farewell, and de¬ 
part in peace. 

Thou must not linger here. 

Bart. Come, come with me. 

Prec. Hark ! I hear footsteps. 

Bart. I entreat thee, come ! 

Prec. Away ! It is in vain. 

Bart. Wilt thou not come ? 

Prec. Never ! 

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, 

upon thee! 

Thou shalt not be another’s. Thou shalt 
die. [Exit. 

Prec. All holy angels keep me in this 
hour ! 

Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! 
Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ! 
Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! 
Yet why should I fear death ? What is it 
to die ? 

To leave all disappointment, care, and 
sorrow, 

To leave all falsehood, treachery, and 
unkindness, 

All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 

And be at rest forever ! O dull heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt 
cease to beat, 

Then shalt thou cease to suffer and com¬ 
plain ! 

[Enter Victorian and Hypolito be¬ 
hind.) 

Viet. ’T is she ! Behold, how beautiful 
she stands 

Under the tent-like trees ! 









96 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Hyp. A woodland nymph ! 

Viet. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave 
me. 

Hyp. Be wary. 

Do not betray thyself too soon. 

Viet. (disguising his voice). Hist ! 

Gypsy ! 

Prec. (aside, with emotion). That voice ! 
that voice from heaven ! O speak 
again ! 

Who is it calls ? 

Viet. A friend. 

Prec. (aside). ’T is he ! ’T is he ! 

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast 
heard my prayer, 

And sent me this protector ! Now be 
strong, 

Be strong, my heart! I must dissemble 
here. 

False friend or true ? 

Viet. A true friend to the true ; 

Fear not; come hither. So; can you 
tell fortunes ? 

Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer 
to the fire. 

Give me your hand. It is not crossed, 
I see. 

Viet, (putting a piece of gold into her 
haitd). There is the cross. 

Prec. Is’t silver ? 

Viet. No, ’t is gold. 

Prec. There’s a fair lady at the Court, 
who loves you, 

And for yourself alone. 

Viet. Fie ! the old story ! 

Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 

Not this old woman’s tale ! 

Prec. You are passionate ; 

And this same passionate humor in your 
blood 

Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I see it 
now ; 

The line of life is crossed by many marks. 

Shame ! shame ! O you have wronged 
the maid who loved you ! 

How could you do it ? 

Viet. I never loved a maid ; 

For she I loved was then a maid no 
more. 

Prec. How know you that ? 

Viet. A little bird in the air 

Whispered the secret. 

Prec. There, take back your gold ! 


Your hand is cold, like a deceiver’s 
hand ! 

There is no blessing in its charity ! 

Make her your wife, for you have been 
abused ; 

And you shall mend your fortunes, mend¬ 
ing hers. 

Viet, (aside). How like an angel’s 
speaks the tongue of woman, 

When pleading in another’s cause her 
own ! 

That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
Pray give it me. ( Tries to take the ring.) 

Prec. No ; never from my hand 

Shall that be taken ! 

Viet. Why, ’t is but a ring. 

I ’ll give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 
Will give you gold to buy you twenty 
such. 

Prec. Why would you have this ring ? 

Viet. A traveller’s fancy, 

A whim, and nothing more. I would fain 
keep it 

As a memento of the Gypsy camp 
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 
Who sent me back to wed a widowed 
maid. 

Pray, let me have the ring. 

Prec. No, never ! never ! 

I will not part with it, even when I die ; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers 
thus, 

That it may not fall from them. ’T is a 
token 

Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 

Viet. How ? dead ? 

Prec. Yes; dead to me; and worse 
than dead. 

He is estranged ! And yet I keep this 
ring. 

I will rise with it from my grave here¬ 
after, 

To prove to him that I was never false. 

Viet, (aside). Be still, my swelling 
heart! one moment, still ! 

Why, ’t is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say ’t is 
mine, 

And that you stole it. 

Prec. O, you will not dare 

To utter such a falsehood ! 

I not dare ? 

Look in my face, and say if there is aught 






THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


97 


I have not dared, I would not dare, for 
thee ! 

(She rushes into his arms.) 

Prec. ’T is thou ! ’t is thou ! Yes ; 
yes ; my heart’s elected ! 

My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul’s 
heaven ! 

Where hast thou been so long ? Why 
didst thou leave me ? 

Piet. Ask me not now, my dearest 

* Preciosa. 

Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 

Prec. Hadst thou not come — 

Viet. I pray thee, do not chide me ! 

Prec. I should have perished hfere 
among these Gypsies. 

Viet. Forgive me, sweet! for what I 
made thee suffer. 

Think’st thou this heart could feel a mo¬ 
ment’s joy, 

Thou being absent ? O, believe it not! 

Indeed, since that sad hour I have not 
slept, 

For thinking of the wrong I did to thee ! 

Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou 
forgive me ? 

Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those 
words of anger 

Were in the book of Heaven writ down 
against thee, 

I had forgiven thee. 

Viet. I’m the veriest fool 

That walks the earth, to have believed 
thee false. 

It was the Count of Lara — 

Prec. That bad man 

Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou 
not heard — 

Viet. I have heard all. And yet speak 
on, speak on ! 

Let me but hear thy voice, and I am 
happy ; 

For every tone, like some sweet incanta¬ 
tion, 

Calls up the buried past to plead for 
me. 

Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 

Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 

(They walk aside.) 

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pasto¬ 
ral poets, 

7 


All passionate love scenes in the best 
romances, 

All chaste embraces on the public stage, 

All soft adventures, which the liberal 
stars, 

Have winked at, as the natural course of 
things, 

Have been surpassed here by my friend, 
the student, 

And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 

Prec. Senor Hypolito ! I kiss your 
hand. 

Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 

Hyp. Not to-night; 

For, should you treat me as you did Vic¬ 
torian, 

And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 

My wedding day would last from now till 
Christmas. 

Chispa (within). What ho ! the Gyp¬ 
sies, ho ! Beltran Cruzado ! 

Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

(Enters booted , with a whip and lantern.) 

Viet. What now ? 

Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou been 
robbed ? 

Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; 
and good evening to you, 

My worthy masters. 

Viet. Speak ; what brings thee here ? 

Chispa (to Preciosa). Good news from 
Court; good news ! Beltran Cru¬ 
zado, 

The Count of the Cales, is not your 
father, 

But your true father has returned to 
Spain 

Laden with wealth. You are no more a 
Gypsy. 

Viet. Strange as a Moorish tale ! 

Chispa. And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your 
health, 

As wells drink in November, when it 
rains. 

Viet. Where is the gentleman ? 

Chispa. As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, * 

His soul is in Madrid. 

Prec. Is this a dream ? O, if it be a 
dream, 













9 8 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Let me sleep on, and do not wake me 
yet ! 

Repeat thy story ! Say I’m not de¬ 
ceived ! 

Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 

This is the Gypsy camp ; this is Victo¬ 
rian, 

And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! 
speak ! 

Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! 

Viet. It is a dream, sweet child ! a 
waking dream, 

A blissful certainty, a vision bright 

Of that rare happiness which even on 
earth 

Heaven gives to those it loves. Now 
art thou rich, 

As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 

And I am now the beggar. 

Prec. [giving him her hand). I have 
still 

A hand to give. 

Chtspa [aside). And I have two to 
take. 

I’ve heard my grandmother say, that 
Heaven gives almonds 

To those who have no teeth. That’s 
nuts to crack. 

I’ve teeth to spare, but where shall I find 
almonds ? 

Viet. What more of this strange story ? 

Chispa. Nothing more. 

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the 
village 

Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 

The proofs of what I tell you. The old 

hag, 

Who stole you in your childhood, has 
confessed ; 

And probably they ’ll hang her for the 
crime, 

To make the celebration more complete. 

Viet. No ; let it be a day of general 

j°y; 

Fortune comes well to all, that comes not 
late. 

Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Hyp. So farewell, 

The student’s wandering life! Sweet 
serenades, 

Sung under ladies’ windows in the night, 

And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 

To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 

_ 


To you, ye radiant visions of romance, 
Written in books, but here surpassed by 
truth, 

The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 

And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish 
Student. 

Scene VI. — A pass in the Guadarrama 
mountains. Early morning. A mule¬ 
teer crosses the stage , sitting sideways on 
his 7 /iule, and lighting a paper cigar with 
flint and steel. 

SONG. 

If thou art sleeping, maiden, 

Awake and open thy door, 

’T is the break of day, and we must away. 
O’er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers, 

But come with thy naked feet; 

We shall have to pass through the dewy 
grass, 

And waters wide and fleet. 

[Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. 
A Shepherd appears on the rocks above.) 

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola ! 
good man ! 

Shep. Ola! 

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia ? 
Shep. It is, your reverence. 

Monk. How far is it ? 

Shep. I do not know. 

Monk. What is that yonder in the val¬ 
ley ? 

Shep. San Ildefonso. 

Monk. A long way to breakfast. 

Shep. Ay, marry. 

Monk. Are there robbers in these 
mountains ? 

Shep. Yes, and worse than that. 

Plonk. What ? 

Shep. W olves. 

Monk. Santa Maria ! Come with me 
to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well 
rewarded. 

Shep. What wilt thou give me ? 

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my bene¬ 
diction. 

(They disappear. A mounted Contraband- 
ista passes, wrapped in his cloak , and a 


















THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


99 


gun at his saddle-bow. He goes dozvn 
the pass singing.) 

SONG. 

Worn with speed is my good steed, 

And I march me hurried, worried; 
Onward, caballito mio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 
Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

{Song dies azvay. Enter Preciosa, on 
horseback , attended by Victorian, Hy- 
polito, Don Carlos, and Chispa, yi 
foot, and armed. 

Viet. This is the highest point. Here 
let us rest. 

See, Preciosa, see how all about us 
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty 
mountains 

Receive the benediction of the sun ! 

O glorious sight! 

Prec. Most beautiful indeed ! 

Hyp. Most wonderful ! 

Viet. And in the vale below, 

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted 
halberds, 

San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 

As if an army smote their brazen shields, 
And shouted victory ! 

Prec. And which way lies 

Segovia ? 

Viet. At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it ? 

Prec. No. I do not see it. 

Viet. The merest flaw that dents the 
horizon’s edge. 

There, yonder ! 

Hyp. ’T is a notable old town, 

Boasting ail ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil 
Bias 

Was fed on Pan del Rcy. O, many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the 
Eresma, 

That, like a serpent through the valley 
creeping, 

Glides at its foot. 


Prec. O yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart than with mine 
eyes, 

So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail 
thither, 

Freighted with prayers and hopes, and 
forward urged 

Against all stress of accident, as in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and 
tide 

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic 
Mountains, 

And there were wrecked, and perished in 
the sea ! (She weeps.) 

Viet. O gentle spirit ! Thou didst 
bear unmoved 

Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 

But the first ray of sunshine that falls on 
thee 

Melts thee to tears ! O, let thy weary heart 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no 
more, 

Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted 
And filled with my affection. 

Prec. Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him 
there, 

Now looking from the window, and now 
watching 

Each sound of wheels or footfall in the 
street, 

And saying, “ PIark ! She comes ! ” O 
father ! father ! 

(Thev descend the pass. Chispa remains 
behind.) 

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a 
dead one. Alas and alack-a-day ! Poor 
was I born, and poor do I remain. I nei¬ 
ther win nor lose. Thus I wag through 
the world, half the time on foot, and the 
other half walking ; and always as merry 
as a thunder-storm in the night. And so 
we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. 
Who knows what may happen ? Pa¬ 
tience, and shuffle the cards ! I am not 
yet so bald that you can see my brains ; 
and perhaps, after all, I shall some day 
go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. 
Benedicite ! [Exit. 

(A pause. Then enter Bartolome, wild¬ 
ly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his 
hand.) 















IOO 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Bart. They passed this way ! I hear 
their horses’ hoofs ! 

Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet car- 
amillo, 

This serenade shall be the Gypsy’s last ! 
{Fires down the pass.) 


Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet car- 
amillo ! 

Well whistled ! — I have missed her ! — 
O my God ! 

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOM^ 
falls.) 










THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND 
OTHER POEMS. 

1845. 


CARILLON. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 

In the quaint old Flemish city, 

As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 

And changing like a poet’s rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven, 

And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 

On the earth and in the air, 

Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 

By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 

As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night; 

Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wanderipg vision, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling ; 

All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 

In the quaint old Flemish city. 


And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet’s airy rhymes, 

All his rhymes and roundelays, 

His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain, 

Scattered downward, though in vain, 

On the roofs and stones of cities ! 

For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 

And by day men go their ways, 

Hearing the music as they pass, 

But deeming it no more, alas ! 

Than the hollow.sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 
In the narrow lanes of life, 

When the dusk and hush of night 
Shut out the incessant din 
Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 
To the poet’s melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 
Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 
Hears amid the chime and singing 
The bells of his own village ringing, 

And wakes, and finds his slumberous 
eyes 

Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 

Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, 

And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 





102 7 HE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, 

But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high ; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, 

With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain ; 

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again ; 








THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 


103 


All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, 

Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; 

Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold; 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; 

Ministers from twenty nations ; more than royal pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; 

I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, 

And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, 

Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold ; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, 

Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote ; 

And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin’s throat; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of sand, 

“ I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land ! ” 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city’s roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before I was aware, 

Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE ARSENAL AT SPRING- | 
FIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceil¬ 
ing, 

Like a huge orgqn, rise the burnished 
arms; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem 
pealing 

Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild 
and dreary, 

When the death-angel touches those 
swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 

Will mingle with their awful sym¬ 
phonies ! 


I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone 
before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon 
hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the 
Norseman’s song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar 
gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his 
palace 

Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful 
din. 




















104 the BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Given to redeem the human mind from 

Beat the wild war-drums made of ser- 

error, 

pent’s skin; 

There were no need of arsenals or 
forts : 

The tumult of each sacked and burning 


village; 

The warrior’s name would be a name 

The shout that every prayer for mercy 

abhorred ! 

drowns ; 

And every nation, that should lift 

The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage; 

again 

The wail of famine in beleaguered 

Its hand against a brother, on its fore- 

towns; 

head 

Would wear forevermore the curse of 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 

Cain ! 

asunder, 


The rattling musketry, the clashing 

Down the dark future, through long 

blade ; 

generations, 

And ever and anon, in tone of thunder, 

The echoing sounds grow fainter and 

The diapason of the cannonade. 

then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 

vibrations, 

With such accursed instruments as 

I hear once more the voice of Christ 

these, 

say, “ Peace ! ” 

Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly 


voices, 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen 

And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

portals 

The blast of War’s great organ shakes 

Were half the power, that fills the world 

the skies ! 

with terror, 

But beautiful as songs of the immor- 

Were half the wealth, bestowed on 

tals, 

camps and courts, 

The holy melodies of love arise. 


NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, 

That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 

Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: 

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; 






NUREMBERG . 


io 5 



And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 

By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust: 





In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of art; 



















































io6 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, 

Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; 

Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never dies. 

0 Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, 

That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, 

Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, 

And'the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime ; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom 
In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, 

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an alehouse, with a nicely sanded floor, 

And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song, 

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave, these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the'world’s regard ; 

But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, 

As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 

The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 


THE BRIDGE. 


I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 


I stood on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the 


Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 


hour, 


And the moon rose o’er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 


And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 






THE BRIDGE. 


107 


The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay, 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them away; 


Would bear me away on its bosom 
O’er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 


As, sweeping and eddying through them, 
Rose the belated tide, 

And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The sea-weed floated wide. 


But now it has fallen from me, 
It is buried in the sea ; 

And only the sorrow of others 
Throws its shadow over me. 



And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thoughts came o’er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 


Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 


How often, O how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at mid¬ 
night, 

And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing 
tide 


And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men, 

Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 
Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

























































io8 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS . 


And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 


The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 


By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
From the missal on his knee ; 


And, amid the tempest pealing, 

Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that from the neighboring klosteT 
Rang for the Nativity. 


Dans les moments de la vie oil la reflexion devient plus 
calme et plus profonde, oil 1’interet et l’avarice parlent 
moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin do- 
mestique, de maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se 
repentirent de posseder des serfs, cotnme d’tine chose pen 
agreable a Dieu, qui avait cree tous les hommes a son 
image. Thierry, Conquete de /’ Angleierre. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 

Was the Norman baron lying ; 

Loud, without, the tempest thundered. 

And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer, 

Spite of vassal and retainer, 

And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

































































THE NOE MAH BATON. 


109 



In the hall, the serf and vassal 
Held, that night, their Christmas was¬ 
sail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sang the minstrels and the waits ; 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 

That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy 
Whispered at the baron’s ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 

As he paused awhile and listened, 

And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

“ Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 

King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! ” 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 

And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 

“ Miserere, Domine ! ” 


In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 

Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 

Every serf born to his manor, 

All those wronged and wretched crea 
tures, 

By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal, 

Death relaxed his iron features, 

And the monk replied, “ Amen ! ” 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent’s sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust: 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages, 

Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 


















































HO THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



This is the place. Stand still, my 
steed, 

Let me review the scene, 

And summon from the shadowy Past 
The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 
Beneath Time’s flowing tide, 

Like footprints hidden by a brook, 

But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with 
thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 
Lay moving on the grass ; 

Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as they : 


One of God’s holy messengers 
Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 
Bend down thy touch to meet, 

The clover-blossoms in the grass 
Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

“ Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born ! ” 

Solemnly sang the village choir 
On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden 
sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, 

Like the celestial ladder seen 
By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon, the wind, 
Sweet-scented with the hay, 

Turned o’er the hymn-book’s fluttering 
leaves 

That on the window lay. 










TO A CHILD. 


111 


Long was the good man’s sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 

For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 

For in my heart I prayed with him, 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed; 
Thou art no longer here : 


Part of the sunshine of the scene 
With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, 
Like pine-trees dark and high, 

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
A low and ceaseless smh : 

o * 

This memory brightens o’er the past, 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 
Shines on a distant field. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother’s 
knee, 

With merry-making eyes and jocund 
smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and face, 
The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 


The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 
With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning idly o’er his gate, 
Beneath the imperial fan of stale, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver bells. 













































112 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


Those silver bells 
Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 
Of darksome mines, 

In some obscure and sunless place, 
Beneath huge Chimborazp’s base, 

Or Potosi’s o’erhanging pines ! 

And thus for thee, O little child, 
Through many a danger and escape, 
The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 


But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou hearest footsteps from afar! 
And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 
The four walls of thy nursery 


Making a merry tune ! 

Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel’s sand ! 


In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 
Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 
The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 


For thee in foreign lands remote, 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild- 
goat, 

Himself as swift and wild, 


Are now like prison walls to thee. 

No more thy mother’s smiles, 

No more the painted tiles, 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the 
floor, 



























TO A CHILD. 


113 


That won thy little, beating heart before; 
Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 
Thy pattering footstep falls. 

The sound of thy merry voice 
Makes the old walls 
Jubilant, and they rejoice 
With the joy of thy young heart, 

O’er the light of whose gladness 
No shadows of sadness 
From the sombre background of memory 
start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls, 

One whom memory oft recalls, 

The Father of his Country, dwelt. 

And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 


And see at every turn how they efface 
Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 

That rise like golden domes 
Above the cavernous and secret homes 
Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 
Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 
These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What! tired already ! with those sup¬ 
pliant looks, 

And voice more beautiful than a poet’s 
books, 

Or murmuring sound of water as it Hows, 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 
With its o’erhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 
And shining with the argent light of dews, 



Up and down these echoing stairs, 

Heavy with the weight of cares, 

Sounded his majestic tread ; 

Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 

Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to 
thee ? 

Out, out ! into the open air 
Thy only dream is liberty, 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play, 

Now shouting to the apples on the tree, 
With cheeks as round and red as they ; 
And now among the yellow stalks, 
Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 
As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I 
trace ; 


Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole’s pendent nest, 
From which the laughing birds have 
taken wing, 

By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant 
swing. 

Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of 
sleep. 

O child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life’s great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 

Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand, 

And with thy little hand 

Thou openest the mysterious gate 

Into the future’s undiscovered land. 

I see its valves expand, 


8 
















114 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 
Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, 
Laden with flickering fire, 

And watch its swift-receding beams. 

Until at length they disappear, 

And in the distant dark expire. 

By what astrology of fear or hope 
Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light, 

And widening outward into night 
The shadowy disk of future years ; 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim, 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 
A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 
Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, 

To struggle with imperious thought, 

Until the overburdened brain, 

Weary with labor, faint with pain, 

Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 

When most afflicted and oppressed, 

From labor there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 
On thy advancing steps await, 

Still let it ever be thy pride 
To linger by the laborer’s side ; 

With words of sympathy qr song 
To cheer the dreary march along 
Of the great army of the poor, 

O’er desert sand, o’er dangerous moor. 
Nor to thyself the task shall be 
Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 
The wisdom early to discern 
True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore, 

Standing beside the blacksmith’s door, 


And hearing the hammers, as they smote 
The anvils with a different note, 

Stole from the varying tones, that hung 
Vibrant on every iron tongue, 

The secret of the sounding wire, 

And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 

I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 

And Fear the pursuivant of Hope. 

Thy destiny remains untold ; 

For, like Acestes’ shaft of old, 

The swift thought kindles as it flies, 

And burns to ashes in the skies. 

RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 
From the throat of the overflowing spout! 

Across the window pane 
It pours and pours ; 

And swift hnd wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 
The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 
At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 
Breath of each little pool; 

His fevered brain 
Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 
Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 
And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 
Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 
Ingulfs them in its whirling 
And turbulent ocean. 








RAIN IN SUMMER . 


Ir 5 



In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide, 
Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 
How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 
The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man’s spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 


As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 
That he sees therein 
Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 
Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 
And from each ample fold 
Of the clouds about him rolled 
Scattering everywhere 
The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 
Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, - 
Have not been wholly sung nor said. 
For his thought, that never stops, 
Follows the water-drops 














THE BELFRY OE BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 
To the dreary fountain-head 
Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 
Climbing up once more to heaven, 
Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 


In the perpetual round of strange, 
Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to 
birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to 
earth ; 

Till glimpses more sublime 
Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 


Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas ; 

Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken ! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city’s 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints ? 


How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies ? 
How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains ? 
Ah ! ’t is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge 
Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements, 

Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, 

Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division ! 


Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash ! 

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple 
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. 
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn, 

Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omaha 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts ? 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 



















THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 


ii7 


Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, 

And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man ? 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 

Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri’s 
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo’s track, nor the Mandan’s dexterous horse-race ; 

It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches ! 

Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, 
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams ! 


















































118 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER FOE MS. 


While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 

In that bright vision I beheld 
Greater and deeper mysteries. 

I saw, with its celestial keys, 

Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 

The Samian’s great iEolian lyre, 

Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 
From earth unto the fixed stars. 

And through the dewy atmosphere, 

Not only could I see, but hear, 

Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 

In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 
From Dian’s circle light and near, 
Onward to vaster and wider rings, 
Where, chanting through his beard of 
snows, 

Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, 

And down the sunless realms of space 
Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 

And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 

- Sirius was rising in the east; 

And, slow ascending one by one, 

The kindling constellations shone. 

Begirt with many a blazing star, 

Stood the great giant Algebar, 

Orion, hunter of the beast ! 

His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion’s hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 

The moon was pallid, but not faint; 

And beautiful as some fair saint, 


Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 

As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars, 

As on the glowing coals and bars, 

That were to prove her strength, and 
try 

Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace, 

And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 

She reached the station of Orion. 

Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 

And suddenly from his outstretched 
arm 

Down fell the red skin of the lion 
Into the river at his feet. 

His mighty club no longer beat 
The forehead of the bull; but he 
Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 

When, blinded by GEnopion, 

He sought the blacksmith at his 
forge, 

And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 

Then, through the silence overhead, 

An angel with a trumpet said, 

“ Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o’er ! ” 

And, like an instrument that flings 
Its* music on^another’s strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 
Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 

And on from sphere to sphere the 
* words 

Re-echoed down the burning chords, — 

“ Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o’er ! ” 


SONGS. 


THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 
Gleam through the rain and the 
mist, 


And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me 
That my soul cannot resist: 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 

And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, 














DRINKING SONG. 


ii 9 


That shall soothe this restless feel¬ 
ing, 

And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 

Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 

Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life’s endless toil and endeavor; 

And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, „ 
As showers from the clouds of sum¬ 
mer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start; 


Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 
The poem of thy choice, 

And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. 


Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 


Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 
In the head of old Silenus ! 


Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 
Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante’s 
Vineyards sing delirious verses. 


Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 
On his breast his head is sunken, 
Vacantly he leers and chatters. 


Thus he won, through all the na 
tions, 

Bloodless victories, and the farmer 


















120 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES ANb OTHER POEMS. 


Bore, as trophies and oblations, 

Vines for banners, ploughs for ar¬ 
mor. 

Judged by no o’erzealous rigor, 

Much this mystic throng expresses : 

Bacchus was the type of vigor, 

And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 

Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o’ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cel¬ 
lars. 


Claudius, though he sang of flagons 
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, 

Never drank the wine he vaunted 
In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 

Ne’er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus’ tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us, 

How its wavelets laugh and glisten 
In the head of old Silenus ! 



i.v,2£T£LLY.S? 


TO AN OLD DANISH SONG- 
BOOK. 

Welcome, my old friend, 

Welcome to a foreign fireside, 

While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 


There are marks of age, 

There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
At the alehouse. 

Soiled and dull thou art; 

Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 

As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 





























SEA-WEED. 


121 


As the leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 

Days departed, half-forgotten, 

When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards, 

Who, in solitary chambers, 

And with hearts by passion wasted, s 
Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friend¬ 
ship 

Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 

In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 

Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 

Once in Elsinore, 

At the court of old King Hamlet, 

Yorick and his boon companions 
Sang these ditties. 

Once Prince Frederick’s Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracks ; — 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 

Sailors on the roaring ocean, 

Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, 

All have sung them. 

Thou hast been their friend ; 

They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 


Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 


THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 

I shot an arrow into the air, 

It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 

It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 

For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterwards in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 

And the song, from beginning to end, 

I found again in the heart of a friend. 

SEA-WEED. 

When descends on the Atlantic 
The gigantic 

Storm-wind of the equinox, 

Landward in his wrath he-scourges 
The toiling surges, 

Laden with sea-weecl from the rocks : 

From Bermuda’s reefs; from edges 
Of sunken ledges, 

In some far-off, bright Azore ; 

From Bahama, and the dashing, 
Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 
The Orkneyan skerries, 

Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 

And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 
Spars, uplifting 

On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 
On the shifting 

Currents of the restless main ; 

Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 
Of sandy beaches, 

All have found repose again. 











122 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



So when storms of wild emotion 
Strike the ocean 

Of the poet’s soul, erelong 

From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 

Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 

With the golden fruit of Truth ; 

From the flashing surf, whose vision 
Gleams Elysian 

In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 
That forever 

Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 

From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 
Tempest-shattered, 

Floating waste and desolate ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 
On the shifting 

Currents of the restless heart: 


Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 

Household words, no more depart. 

% 

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE 
STAIRS. 

L’eteraite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit 
et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans 
le silence des tombeaux: “Toujours! jamais! 
Jamais! toujours!” Jacques Bridaine. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw, 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak. 




































THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 


123 





Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
“ Forever— never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say, at each chamber- 
door, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 

It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 


In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality; 

His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast, 

That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming 
strayed; 

O precious hours ! O golden prime, 

And affluence of love and time ! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— 
“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 

The bride came forth on her wedding 
night; 

There, in that silent room below, 

The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 






























































124 the BELERY OF BRUGES A HD OTHER POEMS. 


And in the hush that followed the 
prayer, 

Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

All are scattered now and fled, 

Some are married, some are dead ; 

And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 

H Ah ! when shall they all meet again, 

As in the days long since gone by ? ” 

The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 


“ Forever — Never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care, 

And death, and time shall disap¬ 
pear, — 

Forever there, but never here ! 

The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

“ Forever— never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 

The night is descending ; 

The marsh is frozen, 

The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 

The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o’er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 

Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 


The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 


WALTER VON DER VOGEL- 
WEID. 

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 

When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wiirtzburg’s minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest: 












WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID. 125 


They should feed the birds at noon¬ 
tide 

Daily on his place of rest; 

Saying, “ From these wandering min¬ 
strels 

I have learned the art of song ; 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long.” 

Thus the bard of love departed ; 

And, fulfilling his desire, 


On the cross-bars of each window, 

On the lintel of each door, 

They renewed the War of Wartburg, 
Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols, 

Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Yogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, “ Why this waste of food ? 



v. .zr/ii.-' j. 


On his tomb the birds were feasted 
By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o’er tower and turret, 

In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 

On the pavement, on the tombstone, 
On the poet’s sculptured face, 


Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood.” 

Then in vain o’er tower and turret, 
From the walls and woodland nests, 
When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 










126 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister’s funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet’s bones. 


But around the vast cathedral, 
By sweet echoes multiplied, 
Still the birds repeat the legend, 
And the name of Vogelweid. 


SOX X K' 


S. 



AUTUMN. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the 
rain, 

With banners, by great gales incessant 
fanned, 

Brighter than brightest silks of Sam- 
arcand, 

And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal 
hand 

Outstretched with benedictions o’er the 
land, 


Blessing the farms through all thy vast 
domain ! 

Thy shield is the red harvest moon, sus¬ 
pended 

So long beneath the heaven’s o’erhang- 
ing eaves ; 

Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers 
attended; 

Like flames upon an altar shine the 
sheaves ; 

And, following thee, in thy ovation 
splendid, 

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the 
golden leaves ! 










THE EVENING STAR. 


127 



DANTE. x 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the 
realms of gloom, 

With thoughtful pace, and sad, ma¬ 
jestic eyes, 

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul 
arise, 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies* 

What soft compassion glows, as in the 
skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps 
relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid 
cheeks, 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 

As up the convent-walls, in golden 
streaks, 

The ascending sunbeams mark the day’s 
decrease ; 

And, as he asks what there the stran¬ 
ger seeks, 

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, 
“ Peace ! ” 


THE EVENING STAR. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 

Whose panes the sunken sun incarna¬ 
dines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, 
shines 

The evening star, the star of love and' 
rest! 

And then anon she doth herself di¬ 
vest 

Of all her radiant garments, and re¬ 
clines 

Behind the sombre screen of yonder 
pines, 

With slumber and soft dreams of love 
oppressed. 

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of 
love ! 

My best and gentlest lady ! even thus. 

As that fair planet in the sky above, 

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at 
nigkt, 

And from thy darkened window fades 
the light. 















128 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 



THE HEMLOCK TREE. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 


And leave me in adversity ! 

O maiden fair ! O maiden fair! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 


O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how 
faithful are thy branches ! 

Green not alone in summer time, 

But in the winter’s frost and rime ! 

O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how 
faithful are thy branches ! 

O maiden fair ! O maiden fair! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 

To love me in prosperity, 


The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 
tak’st for thine example ! 

So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her wings. 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 
tak’st for thine example ! 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, 
is mirror of thy falsehood ! 

It flows so long as falls the rain, 


J 

7 





















THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. 129 


In drought its springs soon dry again. 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, 
is mirror of thy falsehood ! 

ANNIE OF THARAW. 

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON 
DACH. 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 

She is my life, and my goods, and my 
gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 

To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 

Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet 
or come snow, 

We will stand by each other, however it 
blow. 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, 
and pain 

Shall be to our true love as links to the 
chain. 

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and 
so tall, 

The more the hail beats, and the more 
the rains fall, — 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty 
and strong, 

Through crosses, through sorrows, 
through manifold wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wan¬ 
der alone 

In a desolate land where the sun is scarce 
known, — 

Through forests I ’ll follow, and where 
the sea flows, 

Through ice, and through iron, through 
armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 

The threads of our two lives are woven 
in one. 

9 


Whate’er I have bidden thee thou hast 
obeyed, 

Whatever forbidden thou hast not gain¬ 
said. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 

Where there is not one heart, and one 
mouth, and one hand ? 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, 
and strife; 

Like a dog and a cat live such man and 
wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my 
dove. 

Whate’er my desire is, in thine may be 
seen ; 

I am king of the household, and thou art 
its queen. 

It is this, O my Annie, my heart’s sweet¬ 
est rest, 

That makes of us twain but one soul in 
one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we 
dwell ; f 

While wrangling soon changes a home to 
a hell. 

THE STATUE OVER THE 
CATHEDRAL DOOR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

Forms of saints and kings are standing 
The cathedral door above ; 

Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 

In his mantle, —wound about him, 

As their robes the sowers wind, — 

Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he calm and childlike, 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 

O, were I like him exalted, 

I would be like him, a child ! 








130 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 

And my songs,—green leaves and bios- 

i 

Thou little, youthful maiden, 

soms, — 

Come unto my great heart; 

To the doors of heaven would bear, 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 

Calling, even in storm and tempest, 

Round me still these birds of air. 

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSS- 

Are melting away with love ! 

POETIC APHORISMS. 

BILL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

On the cross the dying Saviour 

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIED¬ 
RICH VON LOGAU. 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 

Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

MONEY. 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 

Whereunto is money good ? 

In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

Who has it not wants hardihood, 

Who has it has much trouble and care, 

And by all the world forsaken, 

Sees he how with zealous care 

Who once has had it has despair. 

At the ruthless nail of iron 

THE BEST MEDICINES. 

A little bird is striving there. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose 

Slam the door on the doctor’s nose. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 

- 

With its beak it doth not cease, 

SIN. 

From the cross ’t would free the Sav- 

Man-like is it to fall into sin, 

iour, 

Fiend-like is it to dwell therein. 

Its Creator’s Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 

Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 

God-like is it all sin to leave. 

“ Blest be thou of all the good ! 

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 

Bear, as token of this moment, 

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a 

Marks of blood and holy rood ! ” 

And that bird is called the cross- 

poor man is ; 

For the /ormer seeth no man, and the 

bill ; 

latter no man sees. 

Covered all with blood so clear, 

LAW OF LIFE. 

In the groves of pine it singeth 

Live I, so live I, 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 

To my Lord heartily, 

To my Prince faithfully, 

To my Neighbor honestly. 

THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 

Die I, so die I. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. 

CREEDS. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these 

The sea hath its pearls, 

creeds and doctrines three 

The heaven hath its stars ; 

Extant are ; but still the doubt is, where 

But my heart, my heart, 

My heart hath its love. 

Christianity may be. 

THE RESTLESS HEART. 

Great are the sea and the heaven ; 

A millstone and the human heart are 

Yet greater is my heart, 

driven ever round ; 

And fairer than pearls and stars 

If they have nothing else to grind, they 

Flashes and beams my love. 

must themselves be ground. 









CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke ; 
But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke. 

ART AND TACT. 

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 

Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small ; 
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. 

TRUTH. 

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch’s fire, 

Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth silences the liar. 

RHYMES. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers’ ears, 
They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs ; 

For so long as words, like mortals, ^call a fatherland their own, 

They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known. 


CURFEW, 


The book is completed, 

And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie ; 

Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 

The windows are darkened, 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall; 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all. 


bOLEMNLY, mournfully, 
Dealing its dole, 

The Curfew Bell 
Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 

And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers, 

No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



















This is the forest primeval. The mur¬ 
muring pines and the hemlocks, 
Bearded with moss, and in garments 
green, indistinct in the twilight, 
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices 
sad and prophetic, 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards 
that rest on their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep¬ 
voiced neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate 
answers the wail of the forest. 


EVANGELINE. 

A TALE OF ACADIE. 
1847. 



< 

B 


r\.' 







— — 1 

















E VANG E LINE. 


This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it 
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? 
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — 

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven ? 

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed ! 

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o’er the ocean. 

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, 

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion, 

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; 

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 



PART THE FIRST. 


i. 

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 

Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, 
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o’er the meadows. 
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields 
Spreading afar and unfenced o’er the plain ; and away to the northward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 
Looked on the happy valley, but ne’er from their station descended. 
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 

Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut, 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. 
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables projecting 
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset 
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, 
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 








EVANGELINE. 


T 3 4 



Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors 

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. 

Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and maidens, 

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank 
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry 
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from 
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. 

Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; 

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; 

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, 

Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre, 

Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his household, 

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. 

Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; 

White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, 

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses ! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. 

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. 

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal. 















EVANGELINE. 


*35 


Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, 
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, 
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. 

But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — 

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, 
Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her. 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. 



Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. 

Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 

Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, 

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside, 

Built o’er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. 

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard, 
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; 
There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio, 








EVANGELINE. 


Stiutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 























EVANGELINE. 137 


Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one 
Far o’er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase, 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates 
Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes - 
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre 
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. 
Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 

Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment! 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, 

And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; 

Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, 

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered 



Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 

But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 

Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, 

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men ; 

For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, 

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 

Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood 
Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. 
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, 

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. 

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, 

Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel 
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cindeis. 

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness 












EVANGELINE. 


138 


Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, 
Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows, 

And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 

Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 

Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 

Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o’er the meadow. 

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! 

Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. 

He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. 

She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 

“ Sunshine of Saint Eulalie ” was she called ; for that was the sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples ; 
She, too, would bring to her husband’s house delight and abundance, 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 



II. 

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, 
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, 
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 

Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of September 
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. 

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey 
Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted 
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, 
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints ! 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the landscape 
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. 



















EVANGELINE. 


13 9 


Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, 

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun 
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him ; 
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, 

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest 
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. 

Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. 
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, 

And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heifer, 

Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 



Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, 
Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, 
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, 

Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 

Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, 

When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, 

Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. 

Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, 
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, 

Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, 

Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders 
Unto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence 
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 

Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, 

Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness ; 

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, 

Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 












140 E VANGELINE. 



In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer 
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths 
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 

Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, 

Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 

Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. 

Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 

Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 

Close at her father’s side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 

Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. 

Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, 

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, 
Followed the old man’s song, and united the fragments together. 

As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, 

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, 

So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, 

Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 

Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, 

And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 

“Welcome ! ” the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold, 
“ Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee ; 

Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; 

Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams 
Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.” 





















E VANGEL/NE. 


141 


1 hen, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith, 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 

“ Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad ! 

Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. 

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.” 
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — 
“ hour days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors 
Ride in the Gaspereau’s mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty’s mandate 



Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the mean time 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.” 

Then made answer the farmer : — “ Perhaps some friendlier purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England 
By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 

And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.” 

“ Not so thinketh the folk in the village,” said, warmly, the blacksmith, 
Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued : — 

“ Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. 

Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, 

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 

Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith’s sledge and the scythe of the mower.” 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — 
























142 


EVANGELINE. 


“ Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, 

Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, 

Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy’s cannon. 

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. 

Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village 

Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round about them, 

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. 

Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. 

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children ? ” 

As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover’s, 

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, 

And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. 



ill. 

Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 

Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; 

Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 

Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows 

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 

Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred 
Children’s children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. 
Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. 

Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, 

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. 

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; 























EVANGELINE. 143 


For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 

And of the goblin that came in the night to water the ho ses, 

And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened 
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; 

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, 

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, 

And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, 

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, 

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, 

“ Father Leblanc,” he exclaimed, “ thou hast heard the talk in the village, 
And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand.” 
Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public, — 

“ Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; 

And what their errand may be I know not better than others. 

Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 

Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us ? ” 

“ God’s name ! ” shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith ; 

“ Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore ? 
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest ! ” 

But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public, — 

“ Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 

Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, 

When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.” 

This was the old man’s favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it 
When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. 

“ Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 

Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 

Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, 

And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. 

Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, 

Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. 

But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; 

Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman’s palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 

She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, 

Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 

As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 

Lo ! o’er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand 
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, 

And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, 

Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven.” 

Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language ; 

All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors 
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. 

Then* Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, 

Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed 





EVANGELINE. 


144 


Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre ; 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, 

Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, 

Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 

Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, 

And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. 

Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table 
Three times the old man’s fee in solid pieces of silver ; 

And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, 

Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 

Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, 

While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, 

Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 

Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, 

Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. 



Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window’s embrasure, 

Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. 

Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 
Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep 
Lingered long in Evangeline’s heart, and filled it with gladness. 

Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone, 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 

Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 































































E FANG KLINE. 145 


Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 

Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 

Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. 

Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press 
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 

This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, 

Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 

Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden 
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. 

Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 

Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard. 

Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. 

Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness 
Passed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight 
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass 
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, 

As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar ! 

IV. 

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. 

Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 

Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor 
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. 

Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets, 

Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 

Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk 
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 

Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward; 

Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. 

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. 

Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at the house-doors 
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 

Every house was an inn, where afl were welcomed and feasted ; 

For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, 

All things were held in common, and what one had was another’s. 

Yet under Benedict’s roof hospitality seemed more abundant: 

For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness 
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 

Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 

There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated ; 

There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 

Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, 

Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white 
10 







E VANGELINE. 


Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler 
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. 
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 

Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque, 

And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 

















EVANGELINE. 147 


Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; 

Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. 

Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict’s daughter ! 

Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a summons sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. 
Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, 
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones 
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 

Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor' 

Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 



Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 

“You are convened this day,” he said, “by his Majesty’s orders. 

Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kindness, 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temper 
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; 

Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 

Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is his Majesty’s pleasure ! ” 

As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, 

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones 
Beats down the farmer’s corn in the field and shatters his windows, 

Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-ioofs, 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; 

So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. 








148 EVANGELINE. 


Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose 
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, 

And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway. 

Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations 

Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o’er the heads of the others 

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, 

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 

Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted, — 
“ Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn them allegiance ! 
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests ! ” 
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier 
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 

Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. 

Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; 

Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. 

“ What is this that ye do, my children ? what madness has seized you ? 

Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, 

Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 

Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations ? 

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness ? 

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? 

Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you ! 

See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! 

Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ‘ O Father, forgive them ! ’ 

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, 

Let us repeat it now, and say, ‘ O Father, forgive them ! ’ ” 

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people 
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, 

While they repeated his prayer, and said, “ O Father, forgive them ! ” 

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, 

Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria 

Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated, 

Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. 

Long at her father’s door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, 

Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each 
Peasant’s cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. 

Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table ; 

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers ; 
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy ; 
And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. 

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father’s door, as the sunset 

— ■ ■ ------- 






EVANGELINE. 


149 


Threw the long shadows of trees o’er the broad ambrosial meadows. 

Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 

And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — 

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience ! 

Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 

Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, 

As o’er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 

Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. 

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors 
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. 

Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. 

All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, 

“ Gabriel ! ” cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; but no answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted, 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. 

In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. 

Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created ! 

Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. 

v. 

Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day 
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 

Soon o’er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 

Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, 

Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, 

Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 

Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. 

Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, 

While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach 
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 

All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; 

All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. 

Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 

Echoed far o’er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. 

Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, 
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, 

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 

Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. 






EVANGELINE. 


150 



Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their voices, 

Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — 

“ Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain ! 

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience ! ” 

Then the old men, as they marched, and the wojnen that stood by the wayside 
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them 
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, 

Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — 

Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, 

And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 

Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, 

Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered, — 

“ Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another, 

Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen ! ” 

Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect ! 

Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. 

But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him. 

















EVANGELINE. 


I 5 I 


Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. 

Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth moved on that mournful procession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. 

Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children 
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 

So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, 

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 

Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight 
Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean 
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 

Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, 

Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 

All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 

Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 



Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, 

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving- 
inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 

Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; 
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders ; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard, — 
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. 
Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded, 

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, 

Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, 

Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, 

Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, 

Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita’s desolate sea-shore. 

Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, 

And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, 














152 EVANGELINE. 



Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, 

E’en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. 

Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, 

Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, 

But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. 

“ Benedicite ! ” murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 

More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents 
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, 

Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. 

Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, 

Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them 

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. 

Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o’er the horizon 
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, 

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. 

Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, 

Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. 
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, 
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. 
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 












E VANG ELIA £. 153 



“ We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre ! ” 

Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, 

Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. 

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments 
Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 

When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, 
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 

Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses 
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o’er the meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them ; 































*54 


EVANGELINE. 


And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, 

Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 

Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 
Knelt at her father’s side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 

Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 

And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 

Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, 

Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, 

And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 

Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 

“ Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 

Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.” 

Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, 

But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre. 

And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 

Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, 
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 

’T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; 

And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, 

Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. 


PART THE SECOND. 

i. 

Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre, 

When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, 

Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, 

Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 

Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. 
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,— 

From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters 
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, 

Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. 

Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken, 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. 

Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, 

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 

Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended, 

Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 










E VANGELINE. 


Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, 
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, 

As the emigrant’s way o’er the Western desert is marked by 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. 

Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished; 

As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 

Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 

Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, 

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, 

She would commence again her endless search and endeavor; 

Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones, 
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom 
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 

Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 

Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 

Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, 
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 

“ Gabriel Lajeunesse ! ” they said; “ O yes ! we have seen him. 

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies; 
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers.” 

“ Gabriel Lajeunesse ! ” said others ; “ O yes ! we have seen him. 

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.” 

Then would they say, “ Dear child ! why dream and wait for him longer? 

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others 
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? 

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary’s son, who has loved thee 
Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! 

Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine’s tresses.” 

Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, “ I cannot ! 

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. 

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, 

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.” 

Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, 

Said, with a smile, “ O daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within thee ! 

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 

Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; 

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. 

Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy work of affection ! 

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 

Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven ! ” 
Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline labored and waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the’ocean, 

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, “ Despair not! ” 
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 

Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer’s footsteps ; — 

Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; 

But as a traveller follows a streamlet’s course through the valley : 

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; 








156 EVANGELINE. 


Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, 
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 

Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. 

ir. 

It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, 

Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 

It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked 
Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune ; 
Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, 
Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 
On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 



With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. 

Onward o’er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, 

Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 

Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, 

Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. 

Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 

Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, 

Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. 

They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summei, 

Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, 
Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters. 








EVANGELINE. 


J 57 



Which, like a network of steel, extended in 
every direction. 

Over their heads the towering and tenebrous 
boughs of the cypress 

Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in 
mid-air 

Waved like banners that hang on the walls 
of ancient cathedrals. 

Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, 
save by the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees re¬ 
turning at sunset, 

Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with 
demoniac laughter. 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and 
gleamed on the water, 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and 
cedar sustaining the arches, 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell as 
through chinks in a ruin. 

Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were 
all things around them ; 

And o’er their spirits there came a feeling 
of wonder and sadness, — 

Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that 
cannot be compassed. 

As, at the tramp of a horse’s hoof on the 
turf of the prairies, 

Far in advance are closed the leaves of the 
shrinking mimosa, 

So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad fore¬ 
bodings of evil, 

Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke 
of doom has attained it. 

But Evangeline’s heart was sustained by a 
vision, that faintly 

Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her 
on through the moonlight. 

It was the thought of her brain that assumed 
the shape of a phantom. 

Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel 
wandered before her, 

And every stroke of the oar now brought 
him nearer and nearer. 


Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, 

And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, 
Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 

Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. 
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 

Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches; 


















































EVANGELINE. 


158 



But not a voice replied ; no answer came 
from the darkness; 

And, when the echoes had ceased, like a 
sense of pain was the silence. 

Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen 
rowed through the midnight, 

Silent at times, then singing familiar 
Canadian boat-songs, 

Such as they sang of old on their own 
Acadian rivers, 

While through the night were heard the 
mysterious sounds of the desert, 

Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or 
wind in the forest, 

Mixed with the whoop of the crane and 
the roar of the grim alligator. 


Thus ere another noon they emerged 
from the shades ; and before them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the 
Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the 
slight undulations 

Made by the passing oars, and, resplen¬ 
dent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads 
of the boatmen. 

Faint was the air with the odorous breath 
of magnolia blossoms, 

And with the heat of noon ; and number¬ 
less sylvan islands, 

Fragrant and thickly embowered with 
blossoming hedges of roses, 

Near to whose shores they glided along, 
invited to slumber. 

Soon by the fairest of these their weary 
oars were suspended. 

Under the boughs of Wachita willows, 
that grew by the margin, 

Safely their boat was moored ; and scat¬ 
tered about on the greensward, 

Tired with their midnight toil, the weary 
travellers slumbered. 

Over them vast and high extended the 
cope of a cedar. 

Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine 
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, 

On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 

Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. 

Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. 

Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 




























Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 

Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o’er the water, 

Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. 

At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. 

Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 

Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 

Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 

Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, 

But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, 

So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows ; 

All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers ; 
Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. 

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. 

After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, 

As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden 
Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, “ O Father Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ? ” 

Then, with a blush, she added, “ Alas for my credulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these have po meaning.” 

But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, — 

“ Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me without meaning. 
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface 
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. 

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. 












i6o 


EVANGELINE. 



With these words of cheer they arose and 
continued their journey. 

Softly the evening came. The sun from the 
western horizon 

Like a magician extended his golden wand 
o’er the landscape ; 

Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water 
and forest 

Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted 
and mingled together. 

Hanging between two skies, a cloud with 
edges of silver, 

Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on 
the motionless water. 

Filled was Evangeline’s heart with inex¬ 
pressible sweetness. 

Touched by the magic spell, the sacred foun¬ 
tains of feeling 

Glowed with the light of love, as the skies 
and waters around her. 

Then from a neighboring thicket the mock¬ 
ing-bird, wildest of singers, 

Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung 
o’er the water, 

Shook from his little throat such floods of 
delirious music, 

That the whole air and the woods and the 
waves seemed silent to listen. 

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 

Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 

Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, 

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. 

With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, 

Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, 


Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away 
to the southward, 

On the banks of the Teche, are the towns 
of St. Maur and St. Martin. 

There the long-wandering bride shall be 
given again to her bridegroom, 

There the long-absent pastor regain his flock 
and his sheepfold. 

Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and 
forests of fruit-trees ; 

Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the 
bluest of heavens 

Bending above, and resting its dome on the 
walls of the forest; 

They who dwell there have named it the 
Eden of Louisiana.” 


























EVANGELINE. 


161 



And, through the amber air, above the crest 
of the woodland, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a 
neighboring dwelling ; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the dis¬ 
tant lowing of cattle. 


in. 


Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed 
by oaks, from whose branches 

Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic 
mistletoe flaunted, 

Such as the Druids cut down with golden 
hatchets at Yule-tide, 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of the 
herdsman. A garden 

Girded it round about with a belt of luxu¬ 
riant blossoms, 

Filling the air with fragrance. The house 
itself was of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully 
fitted together. 

Large and low was the roof; and on slender 
columns supported, 

Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and 
spacious veranda, 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, 
extended around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the flowers 
of the garden, 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love’s per¬ 
petual symbol, 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless con¬ 
tentions of rivals. 

Silence reigned o’er the place. The line of 
shadow and sunshine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the 
house itself was in shadow, 

And from its chimney-top, ascending and 
slowly expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of 
smoke rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the garden 


gate, ran a pathway 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, 
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 

Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, 
Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. 


Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 
ii 






















162 ' EVANGELINE. 



Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. 

Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero 
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. 

Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing 
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness 
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. 

Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 
Fully his broad,^^ep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. 

Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o’er the prairie, 

And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 

Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; 

When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith. 

Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 

There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer 
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, 
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. 

Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings 
Stole o’er the maiden’s heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, 

Broke the silence and said, “ If you came by the Atchafalaya, 

How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel’s boat on the bayous ? ” 
Over Evangeline’s face at the words of Basil a shade passed. 

Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, 

“ Gone ? is Gabriel gone ? ” and, concealing her face on his shoulder, 
















EVANGELINE. 


All her o’erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. 

Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — 

“ Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. 

Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. 

Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 
Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 

Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 

Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 

He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 

Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him 
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. 

Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, 

Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 

Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugitive lover ; 

He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning 
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.” 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, 
Borne aloft on his comrades’ arms, came Michael the fiddler. 

Long under Basil’s roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 










EVANGELINE. 


164 


Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 

Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 

“ Long live Michael,” they cried, “ our brave Acadian minstrel! ” 

As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straightway 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, 

Hailed with hilarious joy his old com£>anio'ns and gossips, 

Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 

Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith, 

All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor ; 

Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate, 

And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. 

Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda, 

Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 

All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, 

Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within doors, 

Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. 
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman 
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. 

Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, 

Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened : — 

“ Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless, 
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one ! 

Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; 

Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 

Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. 
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass grows 
More in a single’ night than a whole Canadian summer. 

Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies ; 

Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 

After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, 

No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, 
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.” 
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils. 

While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table, 

So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded, 

Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. 

But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer : — 

“ Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! 

For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, 

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one’s neck in a nutshell ! ” 

Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching 
Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. 

It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 

Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herdsman. 

Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors : 

Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers, 
Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other, 





EVANGELINE. 165 


Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 

But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding 
From the accordant strings of Michael’s melodious fiddle, 

Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, 

All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening 
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, 

Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and die rush of fluttering garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman 
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 

While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 
Came o’er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. 

Beautiful was the night. Behind the' black wall of the forest, 

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. 

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden 
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, 

Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. 

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, 

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, 

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, 

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “ Upharsin.” 

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, 

Wandered alone, and she cried, “ O Gabriel ! O my beloved ! 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? 

Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 

Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me ! 

Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, 

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. 

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? ” 

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded 
Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighboring thickets 
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. 

“ Patience ! ” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness ; 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “ To-morrow ! ” 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers of the garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses 
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. 

“ Farewell ! ” said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold ; 

“ See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, 

And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming.” 





i66 


EVANGELINE. 


“ Farewell! ” answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended 
Down to the river’s brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. 

Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 

Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, 

Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 

Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and uncertain 
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 

Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord, 
That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, 

Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. 



Far in the West there lies a desert land, wherc’the mountains 
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. 

Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, 
Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant’s wagon, 

Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, 
Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska ; 

























E VA NGELINE. 167 


And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, 
Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, 
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, 

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 
Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, 
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, 

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 

Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck ; 
Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses ; 

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; 

Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael’s children, 

Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war-trails 
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, 

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, 

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders; 
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers; 
And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, 



Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside, 
And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, 

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 


Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, 

Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. 

Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil 
Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o’ertake him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at nightfall, 

When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered 
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features 
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. 

She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 

From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 

Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. 













i68 


EVANGELINE. 



1 ouched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 
On the buffalo meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 

But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, 

Worn with the long day’s march and the chase of the deer and the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets, 
Then at the door of Evangeline’s tent she sat and repeated 
Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 

All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. 

Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. 

Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman’s compassion, 

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, 

She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 

Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious horror 

Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis ; 

Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, 

But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, 




























EVANGELINE. 169 


Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, 

Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. 

Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, 

Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, 

That, through the pines o’er her father’s lodge, in the hush of the twilight, 
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, 

Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, 

And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people. 

Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, 

Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor 
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. 
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 

Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline’s heart, but a secret, 
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 

As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. 

It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 
Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment 
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. 

With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, “ On the western slope of these mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. 

Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; 

Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him.” 
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, 

“ Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! ” 

Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the mountains, 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, 

And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, 

Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. 

Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, 

Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed.by grape-vines, 

Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 

This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, 

Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. 

Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, 

Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. 

But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 
Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, 
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, 

And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. 

There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. 

Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity answered : — 





E VANGELINE. 


170 


“ Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 
On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 

Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his journey ! ” 

Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness ; 
But on Evangeline’s heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes 
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 

“ Far to the north he has gone,” continued the priest; “ but in autumn, 
When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.” 

Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, 

“ Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.” 

So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, 



Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, 
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 

Days and weeks and months \ and the fields of maize that were springing 
Gieen fiom the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. 

Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover. 

But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield. 

Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. 









E VA NGELINE. 171 


“ Patience ! ” the priest would say; “ have faith, and thy prayer will be answered ! 
Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, 

See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet ; 

This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted 
Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller’s journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 

Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, 

Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, 

But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. 

Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 

Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe.” 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel came not; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. 

But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. 

Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, 

Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River. 

And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, 

Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 

When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, 

She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 

Found she the hunter’s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin ! 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 

Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 

Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, 

Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 

Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 

Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey ; 

Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 

Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, 

Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. 

Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o’er her forehead, 

Dawn of another life, that broke o’er her earthly horizon, 

As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 

V. 

In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s waters, 

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, 

And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, 

As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. 

There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, 

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 

There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, 

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 

Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, 

Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger ; 






172 


EVANGELINE. 


And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, 

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, 

Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. 
As from a mountain’s top the rainy mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 

Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, 

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, 

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 



Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, 

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 

Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured ; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 

So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 

Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, 

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 














EVANGELINE. 


I 73 




Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, 

Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 

Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 

Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, 

So death flooded life, and, o’erflowing its natural margin, 

Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. 

Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor ; 

But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 

Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, 

Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands ; — 
Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — “ The poor ye always have with you.” 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 

Such as the artist paints o’er the brows of saints and apostles, 

Or such as hangs by night o’er a city seen at a distance. 

Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, 

Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. 














































174 


EVANGELINE. 


Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden ; 

And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 

That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. 

Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit; 



Something within her said, “ At length thy trials are ended ; ” 

And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 

Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, 

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. 

Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; 

Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 






































EVANGELINE. 


*75 



Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 

Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, 

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; 

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness. 

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. 

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 

“ Gabriel ! O my beloved ! ” and died away into silence. 


































176 


EVANGELINE. 


Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, 

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into darkness, 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, “ Father, I thank thee ! ” 



Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 

Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 

Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors, 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 

Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 









































EVANGELINE. 177 



Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 

In the fisherman’s cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline’s story, 

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 



12 








# 

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 

1849. 

DEDICATION. 

And are to us as if a living tongue 

As one who, walking in the twilight 

Spake from the printed leaves or pic¬ 
tured faces ! 

gloom, 

Elears round about him voices as it 

Perhaps on earth I never shall be- 

darkens, 

hold, 

And seeing not the forms from which 

With eye of sense, your outward form 

they come, 

and semblance ; 

Pauses from time to time, and turns 

Therefore to me ye never will grow 

and hearkens ; 

old, 

So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 

But live forever young in my remem¬ 
brance. 

I hear your voices, softened by the 
distance, 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass 

And pause, and turn to listen, as each 

away ! 

sends 

Your gentle voices will flow on for- 

His words of friendship, comfort, and 

ever, 

assistance. 

When life grows bare and tarnished with 

If any thought of mine, or sung or 

decay, 

As through a leafless landscape flows a 

told, 

river. 

Has ever given delight or consola¬ 
tion 

Ye have repaid me back a thousand- 

Not chance of birth or place has made 

us friends, 

fold, 

Being oftentimes of different tongues 

By every friendly sign and salutation. 

and nations, 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have 

But the endeavor for the selfsame 
ends, 

shown ! 

With the same hopes, and fears, and 

Thanks for each kindly word, each si- 

aspirations. 

lent token, 


That teaches me, when seeming most 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside 

alone, 

walk, 

Friends are around us, though no word 

Saddened, and mostly silent, with 

be spoken. 

emotion ; 

Kind messages, that pass from land to 

Not interrupting with intrusive talk 

The grand, majestic symphonies of 

land ; 

ocean. 

Kind letters, that betray the heart’s 


deep history, 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome 

In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 

guest, 

One touch of fire, — and all the rest is 

At your warm fireside, when the lamps 

mystery ! 

are lighted, 

The pleasant books, that silently among 

To have my place reserved among the 
rest, 

Our household treasures take familiar 

Nor stand as one unsought and un- 

places, 

invited ! 






THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 


179 


BY THE SEASIDE. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

“ Build me straight, O worthy Master ! 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wres¬ 
tle ! ” 

The merchant’s word 
Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the 
heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 
Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 


And with a voice that was full of 
glee, 

He answered, “ Erelong we will launch 
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and 
stanch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea ! ” 


And first with nicest skill and art, 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A little model the Master wrought, 
Which should be to the larger plan 
What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature ; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 
The greater labor might be brought 
To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he labored, his mind ran o’er 
The various ships that were built of yore, 
And above them all, and strangest of 
all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 
Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
With bows and stern raised high in air, 
And balconies hanging here and there, 
And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 


And eight round towers, like those that 
frown 

From some old castle, looking down 
Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, “ Our ship, I wis, 
Shall be of another form than this ! ” 










































i8o 


BY THE SEASIDE. 



It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the 
blast, 

Pressing down upon sail and mast, 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; 


Closing behind, with mighty force, 

Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel, 

That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 



Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
That she might be docile to the helm, 
And that the currents of parted seas, 


Covering many a rood of ground, 

Lay the timber piled around ; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 
And scattered here and there, with these. 


% 








































THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 


181 


The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 
Brought from regions far away, 

From Pascagoula’s sunny bay, 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 
Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 
To note how many wheels of toil 
One'thought, one word, can set in motion ! 
There’s not a ship that sails the ocean, 
But every climate, every soil, 

Must bring its tribute, great or small, 

And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o’er the sea, 

And long the level shadows lay, 

As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy, 

Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 

Had hewn and laid them every one, 

Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 

A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man’s speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 
Many a ship that sailed the main 
Was modelled o’er and o’er again ; — 
The fiery youth, who was to be 
The heir of his dexterity, 

The heir of his house, and his daughter’s 
hand, 

When he had built and launched from land 
What the elder head had planned. 

“ Thus,” said he, “ will we build this 
ship ! 

Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 

And follow well this plan of mine. 

Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 
Of all that is unsound beware ; 

For only what is sound and strong 
To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 

And the Union be her name ! 

For the day that gives her to the sea 
Shall give my daughter unto thee'! ” 


The Master’s word 
Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 
Standing before 
Her father’s door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 
The sun shone on her golden hair, « 
And her cheek was glowing fresh and 
fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea 
air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach, 

Just beyond the billow’s reach ; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love’s command ! 

It is the heart, and not the brain, 

That to the highest doth attain, 

And he who followeth Love’s behest 
'Far excelleth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 
Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard’s 
bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 
Of axes and of mallets, plied 
With vigorous arms on every side ; 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 
Was lying ready, and stretched along 
The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 
Happy, thrice happy, every one 
Who sees his labor w r ell begun, 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o’er, 
The young man at the Master’s door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 

And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill, 

The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales, 
Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 
And ships that never came back again, 
The chance and change of a sailor’s life, 











SEASIDE. 



182 BY THE 


Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can 
bind, 

And the magic charm of foreign lands, 
With shadows of palms, and shining 
sands, 

Where the tumbling surf, 

O’er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 
And the trembling maiden held her breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
With all its terror and mystery, 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind ! 
And whenever the old man paused, a 
gleam 

From the bowl of his pipe would awhile 
illume 

The silent group in the twilight gloom, 


And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 

And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark, 

That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 
Tenderly, on the young man’s breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 
Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 
Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 
The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 
Till after many a week, at length, 
Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, up- 
wreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 
Caldron, that glowed, 





























THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 


183 



And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheath¬ 
ing. 

And amid the clamors 
Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 
The song of the Master and his men : — 

“ Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! ” 

With oaken brace and copper band, 

Lay the rudder on the sand, 

That, like a thought, should have control 


And immovable and fast 
Hold the great ship against the bellowing 
blast ! 

And at the bows an image stood, 

By a cunning artist carved in wood, 

With robes of white, that far behind 
Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water, 

But modelled from the Master’s daughter! 
On many a dreary and misty night, 

’T will be seen by the rays of the signal 
light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the 
dark, 



Over the movement of the whole ; 

And near it the anchor whose giant hand 
Would reach down and grapple with the 
land, 


Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
The pilot of some phantom bark, 
Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 

By a path none other knows aright ! 













































184 


BY THE SEASIDE. 


Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place ; 

' Shrouds and stays 
Holding it firm and fast! 

Long ago, 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 
When upon mountain and plain 


Whose roar 

Would remind them forevermore 
Of their native forests they should not see 
again. 

And everywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air, 

And at the mast-head, 



Lay the snow, 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

’Mid shouts and cheers 
The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 
Those captive kings so straight and 
tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 

And, naked and bare, 

To feel the stress and the strain 
Of the wind and the reeling main, 


White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friend¬ 
less, 

In foreign harbors shall behold 
That flag unrolled, 

’Twill be as a friendly hand 
Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and 
endless ! 


All is finished ! and at length 
Has come the bridal day 








































THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 185 



Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
And o’er the bay, 

Slowly, in all its splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 
The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 


In honor of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blend¬ 
ing, 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover’s side. 

Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 

Like the shadows cast by clouds, 

Broken by many a sunny fleck, 

Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 

The service read, 



He waits impatient for his bride. 
There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 
Decked with flags and streamers gay, 


The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 
And in tears the good old Master 
Shakes the brown hand of his son, 
Kisses his daughter’s glowing cheek 







































i86 


BY THE SEASIDE. 




In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 
The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 
That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold, 
Leaping ever from rock to rock — 
Spake, with accents mild and clear, 


“ Like unto ships far off at sea, 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 
Before, behind, and all around, 

Floats and swings the horizon’s bound, 
Seems at its distant rim to rise 
And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 
And then again to turn and sink, 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 
Ah ! it is not the sea, 



Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom’s ear. 

He knew the chart 
Of the sailor’s heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs, 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents, that flow 
With such resistless undertow, 

And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its course. 
Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 


It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 
Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 
Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
Ever level and ever true 
To the toil and the task we have to do, 
We shall sail securely, and safely reach 














































THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 187 


The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining 
beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we 
hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of fear ! ” 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 
Knocking away the shores and spurs. 
And see ! she stirs ! 


Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward 
steer ! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 

O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 

And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be! 

For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o’er angry wave and gust; 



She starts, — she moves, — she seems to 
feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean’s arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 

“ Take her, O bridegroom, old and 

gray* 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms ! ” 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 
She lies within those arms that press 


And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Humanity with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and 
rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
’T is of the wave and not the rock ; 
































r 88 


BY THE SEASIDE. 


’T is but the flapping of the sail, 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest’s roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 


Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our 
tears, 

Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

As the day grows fainter and dimmer, 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 

Into the <x:ean faint and far 

Falls th(N£ain of its golden splendor, 
And the gleam of that single star 
Is ever refulgent-, soft, and tender. 


THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me 
As I gaze upon the sea ! 

All the old romantic legends, 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, 

Such as gleam in ancient lore; 

And the singing of the sailors, 

And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 

Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor’s mystic song. 


Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, 

Showed thus glorious and thus emu¬ 
lous, 

Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 

Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. 

Thus o’er the ocean faint and far 

Trailed the gleam of his falchion 
brightly ; 

Is it a God, or is it a star 

That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! 


Like the long waves on a sea- 
beach, 

Where the sand as silver shines, 

With a soft, monotonous cadence, 

Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 

With his hawk upon his hand, 

Saw a fair and stately galley, 

Steering onward to the land ; — 

How he heard the ancient helms¬ 
man 

Chant a song so wild and clear, 

That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
Poised upon the mast to hear, 




























THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 


189 



Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong, — 

“ Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! ” 

“ Wouldst thou,” — so the helmsman 
answered, 

“ Learn the secret of the sea ? 

Only those who brave its dangers 
Comprehend its mystery ! ” 

In each sail that skims the horizon, 

In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley, 

Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 
For the secret of the sea, 

And the heart of the great ocean 
Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 

Whose windows, looking o’er the bay, 


Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 

The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 

Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 

Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was 
dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 

Or say it in too great excess. 
















BY THE SEASIDE. 


190 



C"~ 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but 
mark; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 

Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, 

The gusty blast, the bickering flames, 

All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain, 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 

That send no answers back again. 


O flames that glowed ! O hearts that 
yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, 

The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed 
within. 

« 

THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 

And on its outer point, some miles 
away, 

The Lighthouse lifts its massive ma¬ 
sonry, 

A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by 
day. 

Even at this distance I can see the 
tides, 

Upheaving, break unheard along its 
base, 

A speechless wrath, that rises and sub¬ 
sides 

In the white lip and tremor of the face. 






























THE LIGHTHOUSE. 


191 


And as the evening darkens, lo! how 

And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 

bright, 

They wave their silent welcomes and 

Through the deep purple of the twi- 

farewells. 

light air, 


Beams forth the sudden radiance of its 

They come forth from the darkness, and 

light 

their sails 

With strange, unearthly splendor in 

Gleam for a moment only in the 

the glare ! 

blaze, 



Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean’s 
verge, 

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 
Holding its lantern o’er the restless 
surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous 
wave, 

Wading far out among the rocks and 
sands, 

The night-o’ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and 
return, 

Bending and bowing o’er the billowy 
swells, 


And eager faces, as the light unveils, 

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while 
they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and 
sink ; 

And when, returning from adventures 
wild, 

He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s 
brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
Year after year, through all the silent 
night 

Burns on forevermore that quenchless 
flame, 

Shines on that inextinguishable light! 












































192 BY THE 

SEASIDE. 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp . 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss 

Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 

of peace ; 

Alas ! the land-wind failed, 

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

And ice-cold grew the night ; 

And nevermore, on sea or shore, 

The startled waves leap over it; the storm 

Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

Smites it with all the scourges of the 


rain, 

He sat upon the deck, 

And steadily against its solid form 

The Book was in his hand ; 

Press the great shoulders of the hur- 

“ Do not fear ! Heaven is as near,” 

ricane. 

He said, “ by water as by land ! ” 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the 

In the first watch of the night, 

din 

Without a signal’s sound, 

Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 

Out of the sea, mysteriously, 

Blinded and maddened by the light within, 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

Dashes himself against the glare, and 


dies. 

The moon and the evening star 

Were hanging in the shrouds ; 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 

Every mast, as it passed, 

Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the 


shock, 

They grappled with their prize, 

But hails the mariner with words of love. 

At midnight black and cold ; 

As of a rock was the shock ; 

“Sail on ! ”ir4ays, “sail on, ye-stately 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

ships ! 


And with your floating bridge the 

Southward through day and dark, 

ocean span; 

They drift in close embrace, 

Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 

With mist and rain, o’er the open main ; 

Be yours to bring man nearer unto 

Yet there seems no change of place. 

man ! ” 



Southward, forever southward, 

They drift through dark and day ; 

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 

Sinking, vanish all away. 

Southward with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair Death ; 


Wild and fast blew the blast, 

TWILIGHT. 

And the east-wind was his breath. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 

The wind blows wild and free, 

His lordly ships of ice 

And like the wings of sea-birds 

Glisten in the sun ; 

Flash the white caps of the sea. 

On each side, like pennons wide, 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

But in the fisherman’s cottage 

There shines a ruddier light, 

His sails of white sea-mist 

And a little face at the window 

Dripped with silver rain ; 

Peers out into the night. 

But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o’er the main. 

Close, close it is pressed to the window, 

As if those childish eyes 

Eastward from Campobello 

Were looking into the darkness, 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 

To see some form arise. 












TWILIGHT. 


And a woman’s waving shadow 
Is passing to and fro, 

Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 


As they beat at the crazy casement, 

Tell to that little child ? 

And why do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 
As they beat at the heart of the mother 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 




































194 


BY THE FIRESIDE. 


BY THE FIRESIDE. 


RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and 
tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 

There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended, 
But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children 
crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 


Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

V 

She is not dead, — the child of our affec¬ 
tion, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor 
protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister’s stillness and se¬ 
clusion, 

By guardian angels led, 



Let us be patient ! These severe afflic¬ 
tions 

Not from the ground arise, 

But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven’s distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is 
transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 


Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s 
pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep 
unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 

Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 












THE BUILDERS. 


x 95 



Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when with raptures wild 

In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father’s man¬ 
sion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 

And beautiful with all the soul’s expan¬ 
sion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with 
emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 

The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feel¬ 
ing 

We may not wholly stay ; 

By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 


THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 
Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 

And what seems but idle show 
Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 

Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 


















ry6 


BY THE FIRESIDE. 


Each minute and unseen part; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, • 

Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, where Gods may 
dwell, 

Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 

Standing in these walls of Time, 


Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 
And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 
Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN 
HOUR-GLASS. 

A handful of red sand, from the hot 
clime 

Of Arab deserts brought, 

Within this glass becomes the spy of 
Time; 

The minister of Thought. 

How many weary centuries has it been 
About those desei'ts blown ! 

How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 
How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 
Trampled and passed it o’er, 

When into Egypt from the patriarch’s 
sight 

His favorite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, 
Crushed it beneath their tread ; 

Or Pharaoh’s flashing wheels into the air 
Scattered it as they sped ; 


Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 
Held close in her caress, 

Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and 
faith 

Illumed the wilderness. 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi’s palms 
Pacing the Dead Sea beach, 

And singing slow their old Armenian 
psalms 

In half-articulate speech ; 

Or caravans, that from Bassora’s gate 
With westward steps depart ; 

Or Mecca’s pilgrims, confident of Fate, 
And resolute in heart! 

These have passed over it, or may have 
passed ! 

Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, 
It counts the passing hour. 

. And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; 
Before my dreamy eye 


























KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 


197 



Stretches the desert with its shifting 
sand, 

Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining 
blast, 

This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 


And onward, and across the setting sun, 
Across the boundless plain, 

The column and its broader shadow run, 
Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls again 
Shut out the lurid sun, 

Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 
The half-hour’s sand is run ! 


KING WITLAF’S DRINKING- 
HORN. 

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 

Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 

That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor, 

And breathe a prayer for his soul. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 

And bade the goblet pass ; 

In their beards the red wine glistened 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 

They drank to Christ the Lord, 


And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 

Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 
Of the dismal days of yore, 

And as soon as the horn was empty 
They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees, 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 

And Saint Basil’s homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent, 

From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomaeus, 

Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, 
And the Abbot bowed his head, 




























[98 BY THE FIRESIDE . 


And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 
But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowl, 

In which, like a pearl dissolving, 

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 
The jovial monks forbore, 

For they cried, “ Fill high the goblet ! 
We must drink to one Saint more ! ” 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall, 

That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair, 

And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air, 

And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night, 

Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 

As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 

Of their voices high 

Falling dreamily through the sky, 

But their forms I cannot see. 

O, say not so ; 

Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet’s songs, 


Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and 
wrongs, 

The sound of winged words. 


From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night, 

With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 

GASPAR BECERRA. 

By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o’er his secret shame ; 
Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 

Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 


From a distant Eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought; 
Day and night the anxious master 
At his toil untiring wrought; 


Then a voice cried, “ Rise, O master ! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within 
thee ! ” 

And the startled artist woke, — 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 
Seized and quenched the glowing 
wood ; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 

And he saw that it was good. 

O thou sculptor, painter, poet! 

Take this lesson to thy heart: 

That is best which lieth nearest; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 


This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 


’T was an image of the Virgin 
That had tasked his utmost skill; 
But, alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 


Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep, 
And the day’s humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 










PEGASUS IN POUND. 


199 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 

And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 
Wide open to the air; 

But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door ; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens, 
They played not in the hall; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 

With sweet, familiar tone ; 

But the voices of the children 
Will be heard in dreams alone ! 


And the boy that walked beside me, 

He could not understand 

Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 

PEGASUS IN POUND. 

Once into a quiet village, 

Without haste and without heed, 

In the golden prime of morning, 

Strayed the poet’s winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and 
sheaves, 

And, like living coals, the apples 
Burned among the withering leaves. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

’T was the daily call to labor, 

Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 

In its gleaming vapor veiled ; 












200 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Not the less he breathed the odors 

TEGNER’S DRAPA. 

That the dying leaves exhaled. 


Thus, upon the village common, 

I heard a voice, that cried, 

“ Balder the Beautiful 

By the school-boys he was found ; 

Is dead, is dead ! ” 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 

And through the misty air 

Put him straightway into pound. 

Passed like the mournful cry 

Then the sombre village crier, 

Of sunward sailing cranes. 

Ringing loud his brazen bell, 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Wandered down the street proclaiming 

Of the dead sun 

There was an estray to sell. 

Borne through the Northern sky. 

And the curious country people, 

Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Rich and poor, and young and old, 

Around him as he passed. 

Came in haste to see this wondrous 


Winged steed, with mane of gold. 

And the voice forever cried, 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 

“ Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! ” 

Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; 

And died away 

But it brought no food nor shelter, 

Through the dreary night, 

Brought no straw nor stall, for him. 

In accents of despair. 

Patiently, and still expectant, 

Balder the Beautiful, 

Looked he through the wooden bars, 

God of the summer sun, 

Saw the moon rise o’er the landscape, 

Fairest of all the Gods ! 

Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 

Light from his forehead beamed, 

Till at length the bell at midnight 

Runes were upon his tongue, 

As on the warrior’s sword. 

Sounded from its dark abode, 


And, from out a neighboring farm- 

All things in earth and air 

yard, 

Bound were by magic spell 

Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 

Never to do him harm ; 


Even the plants and stones ; 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 

All save the mistletoe, 

Breaking from his iron chain, 

The sacred mistletoe ! 

And unfolding far his pinions, 


To those stars he soared again. 

Hoeder, the blind old God, 

On the morrow, when the village 

Whose feet are shod with silence, 

Pierced through that gentle breast 

Woke to all its toil and care, 

With his sharp spear, by fraud 

Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 

Made of the mistletoe, 

And they knew not when nor where. 

The accursed mistletoe ! 

But they found, upon the greensward 

They laid him in his ship, 

Where his struggling hoofs had trod, 

With horse and harness, 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing, 

As on a funeral pyre. 

From the hoof-marks in the sod. 

Odin placed 

From that hour, the fount unfailing 

A ring upon his finger, 

And whispered in his ear. 

Gladdens the whole region round, 


Strengthening all who drink its waters, 

They launched the burning ship ! 

While it soothes them with its sound. 

It floated far away 







THE SINGERS. 


Over the misty sea, 

Feed upon morning dew, 

Till like the sun it seemed, 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

Sinking beneath the waves. 

Balder returned no more ! 

The law of force is dead ! 

So perish the old Gods ! 

The law of love prevails ! 

Thor, the thunderer, 

But out of the sea of Time 

Shall rule the earth no more, 

Rises a new land of song, s 

No more, with threats, 

Fairer than the old. 

Challenge the meek Christ. 

Over its meadows green 

Walk the young bards and sing. 

Sing no more, 

Build it again, 

0 ye bards of the North, 

Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 

O ye bards, 

Of the days of eld 

Fairer than before ! 

Preserve the freedom only, 

Ye fathers of the new race, 

Not the deeds of blood ! 



THE SINGERS. 


God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth, 

That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again. 












202 BY 7 HE FIRESIDE. 



The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 

Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 

Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 
Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face, 

Stood singing in the market-place, 

And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray old man, the third and last, 

Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 

While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 

For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, “ I see 
No best in kind, but in degree ; 























HYMN. 


203 


I gave a various gift to each, 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 


“ These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose eaflds tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 

But the most perfect harmony.” 



HYMN 

FOR MY BROTHER’S ORDINATION. 

Christ to the young man said: “Yet 
one thing more ; 

If thou wouldst perfect be, 

Sell all thou hast and give it to the 
poor, 

And come and follow me ! ” 

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 

And his invisible hands to-day have been 
Laid on a young man’s head. 


And evermore beside him on his way 
The unseen Christ shall move, 

That he may lean upon his arm and say, 
“ Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ? ” 

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, 
To make the scene more fair ; 

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 
Of pain and midnight prayer. 

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour’s 
breast, 

And thus to journey on ! 












































































204 


BY THE FIRESIDE. 


SONNET 

ON MRS. KEMBLE’S READINGS FROM 
SHAKESPEARE. 

* 

O PRECIOUS evenings ! all too swiftly 
sped ! 

Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest 
sages, 

And giving tongues unto the silent 
dead ! 

How our hearts glowed and trembled as 
she read, 

Interpreting by tones the wondrous 
pages 

Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 

Anticipating all that shall be said ! 

O happy Reader ! having for thy text 

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves 
have caught 

The rarest essence of all human 
thought! 


O happy Poet! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now re 
joice 

To be interpreted by such a voice ! 
w 

SUSPIRIA. 

Take them, O Death ! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 
Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, O Grave ! and let them 
lie 

Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by, 

And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust! 


THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 


FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 


Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright; 

Let me attempt it with an English quill; 

And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. 

’ ■c - 



I. 


At the foot of the mountain height 
Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
When the apple, the plum, and the 
almond tree 

In the plain below were growing 
white, 

This is the song one might perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph’s 
Eve : 

“ The roads should blossom, the roads 
should bloom, 

So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with gailands 

gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! ” 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
- Seemed from the clouds descending; 


When lo La merry company ' ^ 

Of rosy village girls^cle.an as the eye, 
Each one with her attendant, swain, 
Came to the cliff, all singing the same 
strain ; \ 

Resembling there, so near x \mto the 

sk Y> v \ . - , 

Rejoicing angels, tha'tdvfnd Heaven has 
sent 

For their delight and our encourage- 
'** ment. 

Together blending, 

And soon descending 
The'marrow sweep 
Of the hillside steep, 

. ‘ ^They wind aslant 

Towards Saint Amant, 

Through leafy alleys 
Of verdurous valleys 
Wiih merry % sallies 
Singing their chant : 



















THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 


205 


“ The roads should blossom, the roads 
should bloom, 

So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

gay> 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! ” 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue ; without one cloud of 
gloom, 

The sun of March was shining brightly, 
And to the air the freshening wind gave 
lightly 

Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges 
blossom, 

A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 

To sounds of joyous melodies, 

That touch with tenderness the trembling 
bosom, 

A band of maidens 
Gayly frolicking, 

A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking ! 

Kissing, 

Caressing, 

With fingers pressing, 

Till in the veriest 
Madij^ss of mirth, as they dance, 
They retreat and advance, 

Trying whose laugh shall be loud¬ 
est and merriest ; 

While the bride, with roguish eyes, 
Sporting with them, now escapes and 
cries : • 

ii Those who catch me 

rm ' * J # t \ 

Married verily , » 

This year shall be ! ” 

' % . . 

And all pursue with eager haste, 

And all attain what they pursue, 

And touch *her pretty apron fresh and 
new, 

And the linen kirtle round her waist. 

Meanwhile, whence comes it that 
among 

These youthful maidens fresh and 
fair, 

•So joyous, with such laughing air, 


Baptiste stands sighing, with silent 
tongue ? 

And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 

Th^t love, o’er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 

O no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 
Never bore so lofty a brow ! 

What lovers ! they give not a single 
caress ! 

To see them so careless and cold to-day, 
These are grand people, one would 
say. 

What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him 
oppress ? 

It is, that, half-way up the hill, 

In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 

And you must know, one year ago, 
That Margaret, the young and ten¬ 
der, 

Was the village pride and splendor, 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 

Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
For them the altar was prepared ; 
But, alas ! the summer’s blight, 

The dread disease that none can 
stay, 

The pestilence that walks by night, 
Took the young bride’s sight away. 

All at the father’s stern command was 
changed ; 

Their peace was gone, but not their love 
estranged. 

Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled ; 
Returned but three short days ago, 
The golden chain they round him 
throw, 

He is enticed, and onward led 
• To marry Angela, and yet 
Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a maiden cried, 

“ Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 

Here comes the cripple Jane ! ” And by 
a fountain’s side 

A woman, bent and gray with years, 
Under the mulberry-trees appears, 
And all towards her run, as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 









206 by the fireside. 

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 

Thus lamented Margaret, 

Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 

She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 

In her cottage lone and dreary : — 

She promises one a village swain, 

“ He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 

Another a happy wedding-day, 

Yet Jane has named him not these three 

And the bride a lovely boy straight- 

days past; 

way. 

Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 

All comes to pass as she avers ; 

And knows that of my night he is the 

She never deceives, she never errs. 

star ! 

Knows that long months I wait alone, 

But for this once the village seer 

benighted, 

Wears a countenance severe, 

And count the moments since he went 

And from beneath her eyebrows thin and 

away ! 

white 

Come ! keep the promise of that happier 

Her two eyes flash like cannons bright 

day, 

Aimed at the bridegroom in waist- 

That I may keep the faith to thee I 

coat blue, 

plighted ! 

Who, like a statue, stands in view; 

What joy have I without thee ? what 

Changing color, as well he might, 

delight ? 

When the beldame wrinkled and 

Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery ; 

gray 

Day for the others ever, but for me 

Takes the young bride by the hand, 

Forever night! forever night! 

And, with the tip of her reedy wand 

When he is gone ’t is dark ! my soul is 

Making the sign of the cross, doth 

sad ! 

say : — 

I suffer ! 0 my God ! come, make me 

“ Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 

glad. 

Lest, when thou weddest this false 

When he is near, no thoughts of day 

bridegroom, 

intrude ; 

Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! ” 

Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has 

And she was silent; and the maidens fair 

blue eyes ! 

Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 

Within them shines for me a heaven of 

But on a little streamlet silver-clear. 

love, 

What are two drops of turbid rain ? 

A heaven all happiness, like that above, 

Saddened a moment, the bridal train 

No more of grief! no more of las- 

Resumed the dance and song again ; 

situde ! 

The bridegroom only was pale with 

Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all 

fear; — 

distresses, 

And down green alleys 

When seated by my side my hand he 

Of verdurous valleys, 

presses ; 

With merry sallies, 

But when alone, remember all ! 

They sang the refrain : — 

Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I 
call! 

“ The roads should blossom, the roads 

A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 

should bloom, 

I need some bough to twine around ! 

So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 

In pity come ! be to my suffering 

Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

kind ! 

gay. 

True love, they say, in grief doth more 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! ” 

ii. 

^ abound ! 

What then — when one is blind ? 

“ Who knows ? perhaps I am forsaken ! 

And by suffering worn and weary, 

Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my 

But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 

grave ! 










THE BLIND GIRL OF CAS TEL- CUILLE. 207 

O God! what thoughts within me 

How merrily they laugh and jest ! 

waken ! 

Would we were bidden with the rest! 

Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 

I would don my hose of homespun 

He will return ! I need not fear ! 

gray, 

He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 

And my doublet of linen striped 

He could not come at his own will; 

and gay ; 

Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 

^ Perhaps they will come ; for they do 

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, 

not wed 

Prepares for me some sweet sur- 

Till to-morrow at seven o’clock, it is 

prise ! 

said ! ” 

But some one comes ! Though blind, 

“ I know it ! ” answered Margaret; 

my heart can see ! 

Whom the vision, with aspect black as 

And that deceives me not! ’t is he ! ’t is 

jet, 

he ! ” 

Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 

And the door ajar is set, 

Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 

“ Paul, be not sad ! ’T is a holiday ; 

And poor, confiding Margaret 

To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ; 

Rises, with outstretched arms, but sight- 

But leave me now for awhile alone.” 

less eyes ; 

Away, with a hop and a jump, went 

’T is only Paul, her brother, who thus 

Paul, 

cries : — 

And, as he whistled along the hall, 

“ Angela the bride has passed ! 

Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

I saw the wedding guests go by; 

Tell me, my sister, why were we not 

“ Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 

asked ? 

I am faint, and weary, and out of 

For all are there but you and I ! ” 

breath ! 

“ Angela married ! and not send 

But thou art cold, — art chill as 
death ; 

To tell her secret unto me ! 

My little friend ! what ails thee, 

O, speak ! who may the bridegroom 

sweet ! ” 

be ? ” 

“Nothing ! I -heard them singing home 

“ My sister, ’t is Baptiste, thy 

the bride ; 

friend ! ” 

And, as I listened to the song, 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing 

I thought my turn would come ere¬ 
long, 

said ; 

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 

A milky whiteness spreads upon her 

Thy cards forsooth can never lie, 

cheeks ; 

To me such joy they prophesy, 

An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 

Thy skill shall be vaunted far and 

Descending, as her brother speaks, 

wide 

Upon her heart, that has ceased to 

When they behold him at my side. 

beat, 

And poor Baptiste, what sayest 

Suspends awhile its life and heat. 

thou ? 

She stands beside the boy, now sore dis- 

It must seem long to him ; — methinks I 

tressed, 

see him now ! ” 

A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth 

At length, the bridal song again 

press ; 

“ Thy love I cannot all approve ; 

Brings her back to her sorrow and 

We must not trust too much to happi- 

pain. 

ness ; — 

“ Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 

Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love 
him less ! ” 

Sister, dost thou hear them singing ? 

“ The more I pray, the more I love ! 







208 by the fireside. 

It is no sin, for God is on my side ! ” 

And whispers, as her brother opes the 

It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 

door, 

“ O God ! forgive me now ! ” 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and 

And then the orphan, young and 

cold; 

But to deceive the beldame old 

blind, 

She takes a sweet, contented air ; 

Conducted by her brother’s hand, 

Speak of foul weather or of fair, 

Towards the church, through paths 

At every word the maiden smiles ! 

unscanned, 

Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 

With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 

So that, departing at the evening’s close, 

Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale, 

She says, “ She may be saved ! she 

Round her at times exhale, 

nothing knows ! ” 

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 

But brumal vapors gray. 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 


Now that thou wouldst, thou art no 

Near that castle, fair to see, 

prophetess ! 

Crowded with sculptures old, in every 

This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 

part, 

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art! 

Marvels of nature and of art. 

And proud of its name of high 

in. 

degree, 

A little chapel, almost bare 

Now rings the bell, nine times rever- 

At the base of the rock, is builded 

berating, 

there; 

And the white daybreak, stealing up 

All glorious that it lifts aloof, 

the sky, 

Above each jealous cottage roof, 

Sees in two cottages two maidens 

Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, 

waiting, 

And its blackened steeple high in air 

How differently ! 

Round which the osprey screams and 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 

sails. 

The one puts on her cross and crown, 


Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, 

“ Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! ” 

And flaunting, fluttering up and down, 

Thus Margaret said. “ Where are we ? 

Looks at herself and cannot rest. 

we ascend ! ” 

The other, blind, within her little 

“ Yes ; seest thou not our journey’s 

room, 

end ? 

Has neither crown nor flower’s per- 

Hearest not the osprey from the belfry 

fume ; 

cry ? 

But in their stead for something gropes 

The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, 

apart, 

we know ! 

That in a drawer’s recess doth lie, 

Dost thou remember when our father said, 

And, ’neath her bodice of bright scarlet 

The night we watched beside his bed, 

dye, 

‘ O daughter, I am weak and low ; 

Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying ! ’ 

And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying ? 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 

Then on the roof the osprey screamed 

’Mid kisses ringing, 

aloud ; 

And joyous singing, 

And lyre they brought our father in his 

* Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 

shroud. 

There is his grave ; there stands the cross 

The other, with cold drops upon her brow, 

we set; 

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon 

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Mar- 

the floor, 

garet ? 

/ 










A CHRISTMAS CAROL . 209 

Come in! The bride will be here 

At the holy table stands the priest; 

soon : 

The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste 

Thou tremblest ! 0 my God ! thou art 

receives it; 

going to swoon ! ” 

Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, 

She could no more, — the blind girl, 

He must pronounce one word at 

weak and weary ! 

N least ! 

A voice seemed crying from that grave 

’T is spoken ; and sudden at the grooms- 

so dreary, 

man’s side 

“ What wouldst thou do, my daughter? ” 

“ ’T is he ! ” a well-known voice has 

— and she started ; 

cried. 

And quick recoiled, aghast, faint- 

And while the wedding guests all hold 

hearted ; 

their breath, 

But Paul, impatient, urges evermore 

Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, 

Her steps towards the open door ; 

see ! 

And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy 

“ Baptiste,” she said, “ since thou hast 

maid 

wished my death, 

Crushes the laurel near the house im- 

As holy water be my blood for thee ! ” 

mortal, 

And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 

And with her head, as Paul talks on 

Doubtless her guardian angel near at- 

again, 

tended, 

Touches the crown of filigrane 

For anguish did its work so well, 

Suspended from the low-arched por- 

That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 

tal, 

Lifeless she fell ! 

No more restrained, no more afraid, 
She walks, as for a feast arrayed, 

At eve, instead of bridal verse, 

And in the ancient chapel’s sombre night 

The De Profundis filled the air ; 

They both are lost to sight. 

Decked with flowers a simple hearse 

To the churchyard forth they bear ; 

At length the bell, 

Village girls in robes of snow 

With booming sound, 

Follow, weeping as they go ; 

Sends forth, resounding round, 

Nowhere was-a smile that day, 

Its hymeneal peal o’er rock and down 

No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : — 

the dell. 


It is broad day, with sunshine and with 

“The road should mourn and be veiled 

rain ; 

in gloom, 

And yet the guests delay not long, 

• So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 

For soon arrives the bridal train, 

Should mourn and should weep, ah, well- 

And with it brings the village throng. 

away ! 


So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! ” 

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, 

For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, 
Thinks only of the beldame’s words of 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

warning. 

FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI 


BAROZAI. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; 
To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 

- I hear along our street 

Feels her heart swell to hear all round 

Pass the minstrel throngs ; 

her whisper, 

Hark ! they play so sweet, 

“ How beautiful ! how beautiful she is ! ” 

On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 


Let us by the fire 

But she must calm that giddy head, 

Ever higher 

For already the Mass is said ; 

14 

Sing them till the night expire ! 








210 by the fireside. 


In December ring 

Nuns in frigid cells 

Every day the chimes ; 

At this holy tide, 

Loud the gleemen sing 

For want of something else, 

In the streets their merry rhymes. 

Christmas songs at times have tried. 

Let us by the fire 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 

Ever higher 

Sing them till the ni£ht expire. 

Sing them till the night expire ! 

Shepherds at the grange, 

Washerwomen old, 

Where the Babe was born, 

To. the sound they beat, 

Sang, with many a change, 

Sing by rivers cold, 

Christmas carols until morn. 

With uncovered heads and feet. 

Let us by the fire 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 

Ever higher 

Sing them till the night expire ! 

Sing them till the night expire. 

These good people sang 

Who by the fireside stands 

Songs devout and sweet; 

Stamps his feet and sings ; 

While the rafters rang, 

But he who blows his hands 

There they stood with freezing feet. 

Not so gay a carol brings. 

Let us by the fire 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 

Ever higher 

Sing them till the night expire. 

Sing them till the night expire ! 





















PROLOGUE. 

The Spire of Strasburg Cathedral. Night 
and storm. Lucifer, with the Powers 
of the Air, trying to tear down the 
Cross. 

Lucifer. Hasten ! hasten ! 

O ye spirits ! 

From its station drag the p mderous 
Cross of iron, that to mock us 
Is uplifted high in air ! 


Voices. O, we cannot ! 

For around it 

All the Saints and Guardian Angels 
Throng in legions to protect it; 
They defeat us everywhere ! 

The Bells. 

Laudo Deum verum ! 
Plebem voco ! 

Congrego clerum ! 

Lucifer. Lower ! lower ! 

Hover downward ! 






























2 12 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and 
Clashing, clanging, to the pavement 
Hurl them from their windy tower ! 

Voices. All thy thunders 
Here are harmless ! 

For these bells have been anointed, 

And baptized with holy water ! 

They defy our utmost power. 

The Bells. 

Defunctos ploro ! 

Pestem fugo ! 

Festa decoro ! 

Lucifer. Shake the casements ! 

Break the painted 

Panes, that flame with gold and crim¬ 
son ; 

Scatter them like leaves of Autumn, 
Swept away before the blast! 

Voices. O, we cannot ! 

The Archangel 

Michael flames from every window, 

With the sword of fire that drove us 
Headlong, out of heaven, aghast! 

The Bells. 

Funera plango ! 

Fulgura frango ! 

Sabbata pango ! 

Lucifer. Aim your lightnings 
At the oaken, 

Massive, iron-studded portals ! 

Sack the house of God, and scatter 
Wide the ashes of the dead ! 

Voices. O, we cannot! 

The Apostles 

And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles, 
Stand as warders at the entrance, 

Stand as sentinels o’erhead ! 

The Bells. 

Excito lentos ! 

Dissipo ventos ! 

Paco cruentos ! 

Lucifer. Baffled ! baffled ! 

Inefficient, 

Craven spirits ! leave this labor 
Unto Time, the Great Destroyer ! 

Come away, ere night is gone ! 

Voices. Onward ! onward ! 

With the night-wind, 

Over field and farm and forest, 


Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, 
Blighting all we breathe upon ! 

(They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian 
Chant.) 

Choir. 

Nocte surgentes 
Vigilemus omnes'! 

I. 

The castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. A 
chamber in a tower. Prince Henry, 
sitting alone, ill and restless. Mid¬ 
night. 

Prince Henry. I cannot sleep ! my 
fervid brain 

Calls up the vanished Past again, 

And throws its misty splendors deep 
Into the pallid realms of sleep ! 

A breath from that far-distant shore 
Comes freshening ever more and more, 
And wafts o’er intervening seas 
Sweet odors from the Hesperides ! 

A wind, that through the corridor 
Just stirs the curtain, and no more, 

And, touching the aeolian strings, 

Faints with the burden that it brings ! 
Come back! ye friendships long de¬ 
parted ! 

That like o’erflowing streamlets started, 
And now are dwindled, one by one, 

To stony channels in the sun ! 

Come back ! ye friends, whose lives are 
ended, 

Come back, with all that light attended, 
Which seemed to darken and decay 
When ye arose and went away ! 

They come, the shapes of joy and woe, 
The airy crowds of long ago, 

The dreams and fancies known of yore, 
That have been, and shall be no more. 
They change the cloisters of the night 
Into a garden of delight; 

They make the dark and dreary hours 
Open and blossom into flowers ! 

I would not sleep ! I love to be 
Again in their fair company ; 

But ere my lips can bid them stay, 

They pass and vanish quite away ! 

Alas ! our memories may retrace 









THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


213 


Each circumstance of time and place, 
Season and scene come back again, 

And outward things unchanged remain ; 
The rest we cannot reinstate ; 

Ourselves we cannot re-create, 

Nor set our souls to the same key 
Of the remembered harmony ! 

Rest! rest! O, give me rest and peace ! 
The thought of life that ne’er shall cease 


Prince Henry (starting). Who is it 
speaks ? 

Who and what are you ? 

Lucifer. One who seeks 

A moment’s audience with the Prince. 
Prince Henry. When came you in ? 
Lucifer. A moment since. 

I found your study door unlocked, 

And thought you answered when I 
knocked. 



Has something in it like despair, 

A weight I am too weak to bear ! 

Sweeter to this afflicted breast 
The thought of never-ending rest! 
Sweeter the undisturbed and deep 
Tranquillity of endless sleep ! 

(A flash of lightning, out of which LUCIFER 
appears, in the garb of a travelling Phy¬ 
sician.) 

Lucifer. All hail, Prince Henry ! 


Prince Henry. I did not hear you. 
Lucifer. You heard the thunder ; 

It was loud enough to waken the dead. 
And it is not a matter of special wonder 
That, when God is walking overhead, 
You should not hear my feeble tread. 
Prince Henry. What may your wish 
or purpose be ? 

Lucifer. Nothing or everything, as it 
pleases 

Your Highness. You behold in me 
















214 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Only a travelling Physician ; 

One of the few who have a mission 
To cure incurable diseases, 

Or those that are called so. 

Prince Henry. Can you bring 

The dead to life ? 

Lucifer. Yes ; very nearly. 

And, what is a wiser and better thing, 
Can keep the living from ever needing 
Such an unnatural, strange proceeding, 
By showing conclusively and clearly 
That death is a stupid blunder merely, 


Ah, how can I ever hope to requite 
This honor from one so erudite ? 

Lucifer. The honor is mine, or will 
be when 

I have cured your disease. 

Prince Henry. But not till then. 

Lucifer. What is your illness ? 

Prince Henry. It has no name. 

A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame, 

As in a kiln, burns in my veins, 

Sending up vapors to the head ; 

My heart has become a dull lagoon, 



And not a necessity of our lives. 

My being here is accidental ; 

The storm, that against your casement 
drives, 

In, the little village below waylaid me. 

And there I heard, with a secret delight, 

Of your maladies physical and mental, 

Which neither astonished nor dismayed 
me. 

And I hastened hither, though late in the 
night 

To proffer my aid ! 

Prince Henry (ironically ). For this 
you came ! 


Which a kind of leprosy drinks and 
drains; 

I am accounted as one who is dead, 

And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon. 

Lucifer. And has Gordonius the Di¬ 
vine, 

In his famous Lily of Medicine, — 

I see the book lies open before you, — 
No remedy potent enough to restore 
you ? 

Prince Henry. None whatever ! 

I^ucifer. The dead are dead, 

And their oracles dumb, when questioned 
Of the new diseases that human life 





























THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 215 


Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. 
Consult the dead upon things that were, 
But the living only on things that are. 
Have you done this, by the appliance 
And aid of doctors ? 

Prince Henry. Ay, whole schools 

Of doctors, with their learned rules ; 

But the case is quite beyond their sci¬ 
ence. 

Even the doctors of Salem 

Send me back word they can discern 

No cure for a malady like this, 

Save one which in its nature is 
Impossible, and cannot be ! 

Lucifer. That sounds oracular ! 

Pri?ice Henry. Unendurable ! 

Lucifer. What is their remedy ? 
Prince Henry. You shall see ; 

Writ in this scroll is the mystery. 

Lticifer (reading). “ Not to be cured, 
yet not incurable ! 

The only remedy that remains 
Is the blood that flows from a maiden’s 
veins, 

Who of her own free will shall die, 

And give her life as the price of yours ! ” 
That is the strangest of all cures, 

And one, I think, you will never try : 

The prescription you may well put by, 

As something impossible to find 
Before the world itself shall end ! 

And yet who knows ? One cannot say 
That into some maiden’s brain that kind 
Of madness will not find its way. 
Meanwhile permit me to recommend, 

As the matter admits of no delay, 

My wonderful Catholicon, 

Of very subtile and magicab powers ! 
Prince Henry. Purge with your nos¬ 
trums and drugs infernal 
The spouts and gargoyles of these towers, 
Not me. My faith is utterly gone 
In every power but the Power Supernal! 
Pray tell me, of what school are you ? 
Lucifer. Both of the Old and of the 
New ! 

The school of Hermes Trismegistus, 
Who uttered his oracles sublime 
Before the Olympiads, in the dew 
Of the early dusk and dawn of Time, 

The reign of dateless old Hephaestus ! 

4s northward, from its Nubian springs, 
The Nile, forever new and old, 


Among the living and the dead, 

Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled ; 

So, starting from its fountain-head 
Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, 

From the dead demigods of eld, 

Through long, unbroken lines of kings 
Its course the sacred art has held, 
Unchecked, unchanged by man’s devices. 
This art the Arabian Geber taught, 

And in alembics, finely wrought, 

Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered 
The secret that so long had hovered 
Upon the misty verge of Truth, 

The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, 

Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech ! 

Like him, this wondrous lore I teach ! 
Prince Henry. What ! an adept ? 
Lucifer. Nor less, nor more ! 

Prince Henry. I am a reader of your 
books, 

A lover of that mystic lore ! 

With such a piercing glance it looks 
Into great Nature’s open eye, 

And sees within it trembling lie 
The portrait of'the Deity ! 

And yet, alas ! with all my pains, 

The secret and the mystery 
Have baffled and eluded me, 

Unseen the grand result remains ! 

Lucifer (showing a flask). Behold it 
here ! this little flask 
Contains the wonderful quintessence, 

The perfect flower and efflorescence, 

Of all the knowledge man can ask ! 

Hold it up thus against the light ! 

Prince Henry. How limpid, pure, and 
crystalline, 

How quick, and tremulous, and bright 
The little wavelets dance and shine, 

As were it the Water of Life in sooth ! 
Lucifer. It is ! It assuages every 
pain, 

Cures all disease, and gives again 
To age the swift delights of youth. 

Inhale its fragrance. 

Prince Henry. It is sweet. 

A thousand different odors meet 
And mingle in its rare perfume, 

Such as the winds of summer waft 
At open windows through a room ! 
Lucifer. Will you not taste it ? 

Prince Henry. Will one draught 

suffice ? 







216 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Lucifer. If not, you can drink more. 
Prince Henry. Into this crystal gob¬ 
let pour 

So much as safely I may drink. 

Lucifer {pouring). Let not the quantity 
alarm you ; 

You may drink all; it will not harm 
you. 

Prince Henry. I am as one who on 
the brink 

Of a dark river stands and sees 
The waters flow, the landscape dim 
Around him waver, wheel, and swim, 
And, ere he plunges, stops to think 
Into what whirlpools he may sink ; 

One moment pauses, and no more, 

Then madly plunges from the shore ! 
Headlong into the mysteries 
Of life and death I boldly leap, 

Nor fear the fateful current’s sweep, 

Nor what in ambush lurks below ! 

For, death is better than disease ! 

{An Angel with an ceolian harp hovers 
in the air.) 

Angel. Woe ! woe ! eternal woe ! 

Not only the whispered prayer 
Of love, 

But the imprecations of hate, 

Reverberate 

For ever and ever through the air 
Above ! 

This fearful curse 
Shakes the great universe ! 

Lucifer {disappearing). Drink ! drink ! 
And thy soul shall sink 
Down into the dark abyss, 

Into the infinite abyss, 

From which no plummet nor rope 
Ever drew up the silver sand of hope ! 
Prince Henry {drinking). It is like a 
draught of fire ! 

Through every vein 
I feel again 

The fever of youth, the soft desire ; 

A rapture that is almost pain 
Throbs in my heart and fills my brain ! 

O joy ! O joy ! I feel 
The band of steel 

That so long and heavily has pressed 
Upon my breast 
Uplifted, and the malediction 
Of my affliction 


Is taken from me, and my weary breast 
At length finds rest. 

The Angel. It is but the rest of the 
fire, from which the air has been 
taken ! 

It is but the rest of the sand, when the 
hour-glass is not shaken ! 

It is but the rest of the tide between the 
ebb and the flow ! 

It is but the rest of the wind between the 
flaws that blow ! 

With fiendish laughter, 

Hereafter, 

This false physician 

Will mock thee in thy perdition. 

Prince Henry. Speak ! speak ! 

Who says that I am ill ? 

I am not ill ! I am not weak ! 

The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o’er ! 
I feel the chill of death no more ! 

At length, 

I stand renewed in all my strength ! 

Beneath me I can feel 

The great earth stagger and reel, 

As if the feet of a descending God 
Upon its surface trod, 

And like a pebble it rolled beneath his 
heel ! 

This, O brave physician ! this 
Is thy great Palingenesis ! 

{Drinks again.) 

The Angel. Touch the goblet no 
more ! 

It will make thy heart sore 
To its very core ! 

Its perfume is the breath 
Of the Angel of Death, 

And the light that within it lies 
Is the flash of his evil eyes. 

Beware ! O, beware ! 

For sickness, sorrow, and care 
All are there ! 

Prince Henry {sinking back.) O thou 
voice within my breast ! 

Why entreat me, why upbraid me, 

When the steadfast tongues of truth 
And the flattering hopes of youth 
Have all deceived me and betrayed me ? 
Give me, give me rest, O rest! 

Golden visions wave and hover, 

Golden vapors, waters streaming, 
Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming ! 







THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


217 


I am like a happy lover 
Who illumines life with dreaming ! 
Brave physician ! Rare physician ! 
Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission ! 

(His head falls on his book.) 

The Angel (receding). Alas ! alas ! 
Like a vapor the golden vision 
Shall fade and pass, 

And thou wilt find in thy heart again 
Only the blight of pain, 

And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition ! 


And I, the poor old seneschal, 

Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. 
Alas ! the merry guests no more 
Crowd through the hospitable door ; 
No eyes with youth and passion shine, 
No cheeks grow redder than the wine ; 
No song, no laugh, no jovial din 
Of drinking wassail to the pin ; 

But all is silent, sad, and drear, 

And now the only sounds I hear 
Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, 
And horses stamping in their stalls ! 



Court-yard of the Castle. Hubert stand¬ 
ing by the gateway. 

Hubert. How sad the grand old castle 
looks ! 

O’erhead, the unmolested rooks 
Upon the turret’s windy top 
Sit, talking of the farmer’s crop ; 

Here in the court-yard springs the 
grass, 

So few are now the feet that pass; 

The stately peacocks, bolder grown, 
Come hopping down the steps of stone, 
As if the castle were their own ; 


(A horn sounds.) 

What ho ! that merry, sudden blast 
Reminds me of the days long past! 

And, as of old resounding, grate 
The heavy hinges of the gate, 

And, clattering loud, with iron clank, 
Down goes the sounding bridge of plank, 
As if it were in haste to greet 
The pressure of a traveller’s feet ! 

(Enter Walter the Minnesinger.) 

Walter. How now, my friend ! This 
looks quite lonely ! 





































2 l8 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



No banner flying from the walls, 

No pages and no seneschals, 

No warders, and one porter only ! 

Is it you, Hubert ? 

Hubert. Ah ! Master Walter ! 

Walter. Alas ! how forms and faces alter ! 


I did not know you. You look older ! 

Your hair has grown much grayer and 
thinner, 

And you stoop a little in the shoulder ! 

Hubert. Alack ! I am a poor old sin¬ 
ner, 

And, like these towers, begin to moulder ; 

And you have been absent many a year ! 

Walter. How is the Prince ? 

Hubert. He is not here ; 

He has been ill: and now has fled. 

Walter. Speak it out frankly: say 
he’s dead ! 

Is it not so ? 


Hubert. No ; if you please, 

A strange, mysterious disease 
Fell on him with a sudden blight. 

Whole hours together he would stand 
Upon the terrace, in a dream, 

Resting his head upon his hand, 

Best pleased when he was most alone, 
Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone, 
Looking down into a stream. 

In the Round Tower, night after night, 
He sat, and bleared his eyes with 
books; 

Until one morning we found him there 
Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon 
















THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 219 


He had fallen from his chair. 

We hardly recognized his sweet looks ! 
Walter. Poor Prince ! 

Hubert. I think he might have 

mended ; 

And he did mend ; but very soon 
The priests came flocking in, like rooks, 
With all Iheir crosiers and their crooks, 
And so at last the matter ended. 

Walter. How did it end ? 

Hubert. Why, in Saint Rochus 

They made him stand, and wait his 
doom ; 

And, as if he were condemned to the 
tomb, 

Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. 

First, the Mass for the Dead they 
chanted, 

Then three times laid upon his head 
A shovelful of churchyard clay, 

Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, 

“ This is a sign that thou art dead, 

So in thy heart be penitent! ” 

And forth from the chapel door he went 
Into disgrace and banishment, 

Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, 

And bearing a wallet, and a bell, 

Whose sound should be a perpetual knell 
To keep all travellers away. 

Walter. O, horrible fate ! Outcast, 
rejected, 

As one with pestilence infected ! 

Hubert. Then was the family tomb 
unsealed, 

And broken helmet, sword, and shield, 
Buried together in common wreck, 

As is the custom, when the last 
Of any princely house has passed, 

And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, 

A herald shouted down the stair 
The words of warning and despair, — 

“ O Hoheneck ! O Hoheneck ! ” 

Walter. Still in my soul that cry goes 
on, — 

Forever gone ! forever gone ! 

Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, 

Like a black shadow, would fall across 
The hearts of all, if he should die ! 

His gracious presence upon earth 
Was as a fire upon a hearth ; 

As pleasant songs, at morning sung, 

The words that dropped from his sweet 
tongue 


Strengthened our hearts; or, heard at 
night, 

Made all our slumbers soft and light. 
Where is he ? 

Hubert. In the Odenwald. 

Some of his tenants, unappalled 
By fear of death, or priestly word, — 

A holy family, that make 

Each meal a Supper of the Lord, — 

Have him beneath their watch and ward, 
For love of him, and Jesus’ sake ! 

Pray you come in. For why should 1 
With out-door hospitality 
My prince’s friend thus entertain ? 

Walter. I would a moment here re¬ 
main. 

But you, good Hubert, go before, 

Fill me a goblet of May-drink, 

As aromatic as the May . 

From which it steals the breath away, 
And which he loved so well of yore; 

It is of him that I would think. 

You shall attend me, when I call, 

In the ancestral banquet-hall. 

Unseen companions, guests of air, 

You cannot wait on, will be there ; 

They taste not food, they drink not wine, 
But their soft eyes look into mine, 

And their lips speak to me, and all 
The vast and shadowy banquet-hall 
Is full of looks and words divine ! 

(Leaning over the parapet .) 

The day is done ; and slowly from the 
scene 

The stooping sun upgathers his spent 
shafts, 

And puts them back into his golden 
quiver ! 

Below me in the valley, deep and green 
As goblets are, from which in thirsty 
draughts 

We drink its wine, the swift and mantling 
river 

Flows on triumphant through these lovely 
regions, 

Etched with the shadows of its sombre 
m argent, 

And soft, reflected clouds of gold and 
argent! 

Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and still, 
As when the vanguard of the Roman 
legions 









220 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


First saw it from the top of yonder hill ! 
How beautiful it is ! Fresh fields of wheat, 
Vineyard, and town, and tower with flut¬ 
tering flag, 

The consecrated chapel on the crag, 

And the white hamlet gathered round its 
base, 

Like Mary sitting at her Saviour’s feet, 


Prince Henry {reading). One morning, 
all alone, 

Out of his convent of gray stone, 

Into the forest older, darker, grayer, 

His lips moving as if in prayer, 

His head sunken upon his breast 
As in a dream of rest, 

Walked the Monk Felix. All about 



And looking up at ids beloved lace ! 

O friend ! O best of friends ! Thy ab¬ 
sence more 

Than the impending night darkens the 
landscape o’er ! 

II. 

A farm in the Odenwald. A garden ; 
morning; Prince Henry seated , with 
a book. Elsie, at a distance , gathering 
flowers. 


The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, 
Filling the summer air ; 

And within the woodlands as he trod, 
The dusk was like the Truce of God 
With worldly woe and care ; 

Under him lay the golden moss ; 

And above him the boughs of hoary trees 
Waved, and made the sign of the cross, 
And whispered their Benedicites ; 

And from the ground 

Rose an odor sweet and fragrant 

Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant 























































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


221 



Vines that wandered, 

Seeking the sunshine, round and round. 

These he heeded not, but pondered 
On the volume in his hand, 

A volume of Saint Augustine, 

Wherein he read of the unseen 
Splendors of God’s great town 
In the unknown land, 

And, with his eyes cast down 
In humility, he said : 

“ I believe, O God, 

What herein I have read, 

But, alas ! I do not understand ! ” 

And lo ! he heard 

The sudden singing of a bird, 

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud 
Dropped down, 

And among the branches brown 
Sat singing 

So sweet, and clear, and loud, 

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ring¬ 
ing. 

And the Monk Felix closed his book 
And long, long, 

With rapturous look, 


He listened to the song, 

And hardly breathed or stirred, 

Until he saw, as in a vision, 

The land Elysian, 

And in the heavenly city heard 
Angelic feet 

Fall on the golden flagging of the street. 

And he would fain 

Have caught the wondrous bird, 

But strove in vain ; 

For it flew away, away, 

Far over hill and dell, 

And instead of its sweet singing 
He heard the convent bell 
Suddenly in the silence ringing 
For the service of noonday. 

And he retraced 

His pathway homeward sadly and in 
haste. 

In the convent there was a change ! 

He looked for each well-known face, 

But the faces were new and strange ; 

New figures sat in the oaken stalls, 

New voices chanted in the choir; 

Yet the place was the same place, 

The same dusky walls 















222 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Of cold, gray stone, 

The same cloisters and belfry and spire. 

A stranger and alone 
Among that brotherhood 
The Monk Felix stood. 

“ Forty years,” said a Friar, 

“ Have I been Prior 
Of this convent in the wood, 

But for that space 

Never have I beheld thy face ! ” 

The heart of the Monk Felix fell: 

And he answered, with submissive tone, 

“ This morning, after the hour of Prime, 

I left my cell, 

And wandered forth alone, 

Listening all the time 
To the melodious singing 
Of a beautiful white bird, 

Until I heard 

The bells of the convent ringing 
Noon from their noisy towers. 

It was as if I dreamed ; 

For what to me had seemed 
Moments only, had been hours ! ” 

“ Years ! ” said a voice close by. 

It was an aged monk who spoke, 

From a bench of oak 
Fastened against the wall; — 

He was the oldest monk of all. 

For a whole century 
Had he been there, 

Serving God in prayer, 

The meekest and humblest of his crea¬ 
tures. 

He remembered well the features 
Of Felix, and he said, 

Speaking distinct and slow ; 

“ One hundred years ago, 

When I was a novice in this place, 

There was here a monk, full of God’s 
grace, 

Who bore the name 

Of Felix, and this man must be the 
same.” 

And straightway 

They brought forth to the light of day 
A volume old and brown, 

A huge tome, bound 
In brass and wild-boar’s hide, 


Wherein were written down 
The names of all who had died 
In the convent, since it was edified. 

And there they found, 

Just as the old monk said, 

That on a certain day and date, 

One hundred years before, 

Had gone forth from the convent gate 
The Monk Felix, and never more 
Had entered that sacred door. 

He had been counted among the dead ! 
And they knew, at last, 

That, such had been the power 
Of that celestial and immortal song, 

A hundred years had passed, 

And had not seemed so long 
As a single hour ! 

(Elsie comes in with flowers .) 

Elsie. Plere are flowers for you, 

But they are not all for you. 

Some of them are for the Virgin 
And for Saint Cecilia. 

Prince Henry. As thou standest there, 
Thou seemest to me like the angel 
That brought the immortal roses 
To Saint Cecilia’s bridal chamber. 

Elsie. But these will fade. 

Prince Llenry. Themselves will fade, 
But not their memory, 

And memory has the power 
To re-create them from the dust. 

They remind me, too, 

Of martyred Dorothea, 

Who from celestial gardens sent 
Flowers as her witnesses 
To him who scoffed and doubted. 

Elsie. Do you know the story 
Of Christ and the Sultan’s daughter ? 
That is the prettiest legend of them all. 

Prince Henry. Then tell it to me. 

But first come hither. 

Lay the flowers down beside me, 

And put both thy hands in mine. 

Now tell me the story. 

Elsie. Early in the morning 
The Sultan’s daughter 
Walked in her father’s garden, 

Gathering the bright flowers, 

All full of dew. 

Prince Henry. Just as thou hast been 
doing 

This morning, dearest Elsie. 






THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


223 




? She wondered 

Who was the Master of the Flowers, 

And made them grow 

Out of the cold, dark earth. 

“ In my heart,” she said, 

“ I love him ; and for him 
Would leave my father’s palace, 

To labor in his garden.” 

Prince Henry. Dear, innocent child ! 
How sweetly thou recallest 
The long-forgotten legend, 

That in my early childhood 
My mother told me ! 

Upon my brain 
It reappears once more, 

As a birth-mark on the forehead 
When a hand suddenly 
Is laid upon it, and removed ! 

Elsie. And at midnight, 

As she lay upon her bed, 

She heard a voice 


more and more 

Call to her from the garden, 

And, looking forth from her window, 
She saw a beautiful youth 
Standing among the flowers. 

It was the Lord Jesus ; 

And she went down to him, 

And opened the door for him ; 

And he said to her, “ O maiden ! 
Thou hast thought of me with love, 
And for thy sake 
Out of my Father’s kingdom 
Have I come hither : 

I am the Master of the Flowers. 

My garden is in Paradise, 

And if thou wilt go with me, 

Thy bridal garland 

Shall be of bright red flowers.” 

And then he took from his finger 
A golden ring, 

And asked the Sultan’s daughter 










































224 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


If she would be his bride. 

But a crown of roses. 

And when she answered him with love, 

In thy bridal chamber, 

His wounds began to bleed, 

Like Saint Cecilia, 

And she said to him, 

Thou shalt hear sweet music, 

“ 0 Love ! how red thy heart is, 

And breathe the fragrance 

And thy hands are full of roses.” 

Of flowers immortal ! 

“ For thy sake,” answered he, 

Go now and place these flowers 

“ For thy sake is my heart so red, 

Before her picture. 



For thee I bring these roses ; 

I gathered them at the cross 
Whereon I died for thee ! 

Come, for my Father calls. 

Thou art my elected bride ! ” 

And the Sultan’s daughter 
Followed him to his Father’s garden. 
Prince Henry. Wouldst thou have 
done so, Elsie ? 

Elsie. Yes, very gladly. 

Prince Henry. Then the Celestial 
Bridegroom 

Will come for thee also. 

Upon thy forehead he will place, 

Not his crown of thorns, 


A room i?i the farm-house. Twilight. 
Ursula spinning. Gottlieb asleep in 
his chair. 

Ursula. Darker and darker ! Hardly 
a glimmer 

Of light comes in at the window-pane ; 
Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer ? 

I cannot disentangle this skein, 

Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. 

Elsie ! 

Gottlieb [starting). The stopping of thy 
wheel 

Has wakened me out of a pleasant dream. 
I thought I was sitting beside a stream, 




















THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 225 


And heard the grinding of a mill, 

When suddenly the wheels stood still, 
And a voice cried “ Elsie ” in my ear ! 

It startled me, it seemed so near. 

Ursula. I was calling her: I want a 
light. 

I cannot see to spin my flax. 

Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear ? 
Elsie (within). In a moment ! 

Gottlieb. Where are Bertha and Max ? 
Ursula. They are sitting with Elsie at 
the door. 

She is telling them stories of the wood, 
And the Wolf, and little Red Riding- 
hood. 

Gottlieb. And where is the Prince ? 
Ursula. In his room overhead ; 

I heard him walking across the floor, 

As he always does, with a heavy tread. 

(Elsie comes in with a lamp. Max and 
Bertha follow her ; and they all sing 
the Evening Song on the lighting of the 
lamps.) 

EVENING SONG. 

O gladsome light 
Of the Father Immortal, 

And of the celestial 
Sacred and blessed 
Jesus, our Saviour ! 

Now to the sunset 

Again hast thou brought us ; 

And, seeing the evening 
Twilight, we bless thee, 

Praise thee, adore thee 

Father omnipotent! 

Son, the Life-giver ! 

Spirit, the Comforter ! 

Worthy at all times 
Of worship and wonder ! 

Prince Henry (at the door). Amen ! 
Ursula. Who was it said Amen ? 

Elsie. It was the Prince : he stood at 
the door, 

And listened a moment, as we chanted 
The evening song. He is gone again. 

I have often seen him there before. 
Ursula. Poor Prince ! 

Gottlieb. I thought the house was 
haunted ! 

15 


Poor Prince, alas ! and yet as mild 
And patient as the gentlest child ! 

Max. I love him because he is so 
good, 

And makes me such fine bows and ar¬ 
rows, 

To shoot at the robins and the sparrows, 
And the red squirrels in the wood ! 

Bertha. I love him, too ! 

Gottlieb. Ah, yes ! we all 

Love him, from the bottom of our hearts ; 
He gave us the farm, the house, and the 
grange, 

He gave us the horses and the carts, 

And the great oxen in the stall, 

The vineyard, and the forest range ! 

We have nothing to give him but our 
love ! 

Bertha. Did he give us the beautiful 
stork above 

On the chimney-top, with its large, round 
nest ? 

Gottlieb. No, not the stork ; by God 
in heaven, 

As a blessing, the dear white stork was 
given, 

But the Prince has given us all the rest. 
God bless him, and make him well again. 

Elsie. Would I could do something 
for his sake, 

Something to cure his sorrow and pain ! 

Gottlieb. That no one can ; neither 
thou nor I, 

Nor any one else. 

Elsie. And must he die ? 

Ursula. Yes ; if the dear God does 
not take 

Pity upon him, in his distress, 

And work a miracle ! 

Gottlieb. Or unless 

Some maiden, of her own accord, 

Offers her fife for that of her lord, 

And is willing to die in his stead. 

Elsie. I will ! 

Ursula. Prithee, thou foolish child, be 
still ! 

Thou shouldst not say what thou dost 
not mean ! 

Elsie. I mean it truly ! 

Max. O father ! this morning, 

Down by the mill, in the ravine, 

Hans killed a wolf, the very same 
That in the night to the sheepfold came, 








226 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And ate up my lamb, that was left out¬ 
side. 

Gottlieb. I am glad he is dead. It will 
be a warning 

To the wolves in the forest, far and wide. 

Max. And I am going to have his 
hide ! 

Bertha. I wonder if this is the wolf 
that ate 

Little Red Ridinghood ! 

Ursula. O no ! 

That wolf was killed a long while ago. 

Come, children, it is growing late. 

Max. Ah, how I wish I were a man, 

As stout as Hans is, and as strong! 

I would do nothing else, the whole day 
long, 

But just kill wolves. 

Gottlieb. Then go to bed, 

And grow as fast as a little boy can. 


Bertha is half asleep already. 

See how she nods her heavy head, 

And her sleepy feet are so unsteady 
She will hardly be able to creep up stairs. 
Ursula. Good night, my children. 
Here’s the light. 

And do not forget to say your prayers 
Before you sleep. 

Gottlieb. Good night ! 

Max and Bertha. Good night ! 

(They go out with Elsie.) 

Ursula {spinning). She is a strange 
and wayward child, 

That Elsie of ours. She looks so old, 
And thoughts and fancies weird and wild 
Seem of late to have taken hold 
Of her heart that was once so docile and 
mild ! 

Gottlieb. She is like all girls. 












THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


227 


Ursula. Ah no, forsooth ! 

Unlike all I have ever seen. 

For she has visions and strange dreams, 
And in all her words and ways, she seems 
Much older than she is in truth. 

Who would think her but fifteen ? 

And there has been of late such a change ! 
My heart is heavy with fear and doub.t 
That she may not live till the year is out. 


That hereafter I may meet thee, 
Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, 
With my lamp well trimmed and burn¬ 
ing ! 

Interceding 

With these bleeding 

Wounds upon thy hands and side, 

For all who have lived and erred 



She is so strange, — so strange, — so 
strange ! 

Gottlieb. I am not troubled with any 
such fear ; 

She will live and thrive for many a year. 

Elsie’s chamber. Night. Elsie pray¬ 
ing. 

Elsie. My Redeemer and my Lord, 

I beseech thee, I entreat thee, 

Guide me in each act and word, 


Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, 
Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, 
And in the grave hast thou been buried ! 

If my feeble prayer can reach thee, 

O my Saviour, I beseech thee, 

Even as thou hast died for me, 

More sincerely 

Let me follow where thou leadest, 

Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, 

Die, if dying I may give 






















228 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Life to one who asks to live, 

And more nearly, 

Dying thus, resemble thee ! 

The chamber of Gottlieb and Ursula. 
Midnight. Elsie standing by their 
bedside , weeping. 

Gottlieb. The wind is roaring ; the 
rushing rain 

Is loud upon roof and window-pane, 

As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, 
Boding evil to me and mine, 

Were abroad to-night with his ghostly 
train ! 

In the brief lulls of the tempest wild, 

The dogs howl in the yard ; and hark ! 
Some one is sobbing in the dark, 

Here in the chamber ! 

Elsie. It is I. 

Ursula. Elsie ! what ails thee, my 

poor child ? 

Elsie. I am disturbed and much dis¬ 
tressed, 

In thinking our dear Prince must die ; 

I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. 

Gottlieb. What wouldst thou ? In the 
Power Divine 

His healing lies, not in our own ; 

It is in the hand of God alone. 

Elsie. Nay, he has put it into mine, 
And into my heart! 

Gottlieb. Thy words are wild ! 

Ursula. What dost thou mean ? my 
child ! my child ! 

Elsie. That for our dear Prince Hen¬ 
ry’s sake 

I will myself the offering make, 

And give my life to purchase his. 

Ursula. Am I still dreaming, or 
awake ? 

Thou speakest carelessly of death, 

And yet thou knowest not what it is. 

Elsie. ’T is the cessation of our 
breath. 

Silent and motionless we lie ; 

And no one knoweth more than this. 

I saw our little Gertrude die ; 

She left off breathing, and no more 
I smoothed the pillow beneath her 
head. 

She was more beautiful than before. 

Like violets faded were her eyes ; 

By this we knew that she was dead. 


Through the open window looked the 
skies 

Into the chamber where she lay, 

And the wind was like the sound of 
wings, 

As if angels came to bear her away. 

Ah ! when I saw and felt these things, 

I found it difficult to stay; 

I longed to die, as she had died, 

And go forth with her, side by side. 

The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead, 
And Mary, and our Lord ; and I 
Would follow in humility 
The way by them illumined ! 

Ursula. My child ! my child ! thou 
must not die ! 

Elsie. Why should I live ? Do I not 
know 

The life of woman is full of woe ! 

Toiling on and on and on, 

With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, 
And silent lips, and in the soul 
The secret longings that arise, 

Which this world never satisfies ! 

Some more, some less, but of the whole 
Not one quite happy, no, not one ! 

Ursula. It is the malediction of Eve ! 
Elsie. In place of it, let me receive 
The benediction of Mary, then. 

Gottlieb. Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is 
me ! 

Most wretched am I among men ! 

Ursula. Alas ! that I should live to 
see 

Thy death, beloved, and to stand 
Above thy grave ! Ah, woe the day ! 
Elsie. Thou wilt not see it. I shall 
lie 

Beneath the flowers of another land, 

For at Salerno, far away 

Over the mountains, over the sea, 

It is appointed me to die ! 

And it will seem no more to thee 
Than if at the village on market-day 
I should a little longer stay 
Than I am wont. 

Ursula. Even as thou sayest ! 

And how my heart beats, when thou 
stayest! 

I cannot rest until my sight 
Is satisfied in seeing thee. 

What, then, if thou wert dead ? 

Gottlieb. Ah me! 






THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


229 



Of our old eyes thou art the light! 

The joy of our old hearts art thou ! 

And wilt thou die ? 

Ursula. Not now ! not now ! 

Elsie. Christ died for me, and shall 
not I 

Be willing for my Prince to die ? 

You both are silent; you cannot speak. 
This said I at our Saviour’s feast 
After confession, to the priest, 

And even he made no reply. 

Does he not warn us all to seek 
The happier, better land on high, 

Where flowers immortal never wither ; 
And could he forbid me to go thither ? 
Gottlieb. In God’s own time, my 
heart’s delight! 

When he shall call thee, not before ! 
Elsie. I heard him call. When 
Christ ascended 

Triumphantly, from star to star, 

He left the gates of heaven ajar. 

I had a vision in the night, 

And saw him standing at the door 
Of his Father’s mansion, vast and splen¬ 
did 

And beckoning to me from afar. 

I cannot stay ! 

Gottlieb. She speaks almost 

As if it were the Holy Ghost 
Spake through her lips, and in her stead ! 
What if this were of God ? 


Ursula. Ah, then 

Gainsay it dare we not. 

Gottlieb. Amen ! 

Elsie ! the words that thou hast said 
Are strange and new for us to hear, 

And fill our hearts with doubt and fear. 
Whether it be a dark temptation 
Of the Evil One, or God’s inspiration, 

We in our blindness cannot say. 

We must think upon it, and pray; 

For evil and good it both resembles. 

If it be of God, his will be done ! 

May he guard us from the Evil One ! 
How hot thy hand is ! how it trembles ! 
Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. 

Ursula. Kiss me. Good night; and 
do not weep ! 

(Elsie goes out.) 

Ah, what an awful thing is this ! 

I almost shuddered at her kiss, 

As if a ghost had touched my cheek, 

I am so childish and so weak ! 

As soon as I see the earliest gray 
Of morning glimmer in the east, 

I will go over to the priest, 

And hear what the good man has to say ! 

A village church. A woman kneeling at 
the confessional. 

The Parish Priest [from within ). Go, 
sin no more ! Thy penance o’er, 






























































2 3 ° 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


A new and better life begin ! 

God maketh thee forever free 
From the dominion of thy sin ! 

Go, sin no more ! He will restore 
The peace that filled thy heart before, 
And pardon thine iniquity ! 

(The woman goes out. The Priest comes 
forth, and walks slowly up and dozvn 
the church.) 

O blessed Lord ! how much I need 
Thy light to guide me on my way ! 

So many hands, that, without heed, 


As offerings of my ministry ? 

What wrong repressed, what right main¬ 
tained, 

What struggle passed, what victory 
gained, 

What good attempted and attained ? 
Feeble, at best, is my endeavor ! 

I see, but cannot reach, the height 
That lies forever in the light, 

And yet forever and forever, 

When seeming just within my grasp, 

I feel my feeble hands unclasp, 

And sink discouraged into night! 



Still touch thy wounds, and make them 
bleed ! 

So many feet, that, day by day, 

Still wander from thy fold astray ! 

Unless thou fill me with thy light, 

I cannot lead thy flock aright; 

Nor, without thy support, can bear 
The burden of so great a care, 

But am myself a castaway ! 

(A pause.) 

The day is drawing to its close ; 

And what good deeds, since first it rose 
Have I presented, Lord to thee, 


For thine own purpose, thou hast sent 
The strife and the discouragement! 

(A pause.) 

Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck ? 
Why keep me pacing to and fro 
Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, 
Counting my footsteps as I go, 

And marking with each step a tomb ? 
Why should the world for thee make 
room, 

And wait thy leisure and thy beck ? 

Thou comest in the hope to hear 
Some word of comfort and of cheer. 

















































What can I say ? I cannot give 
The counsel to do this and live; 

But rather, firmly to deny 

The tempter, though his power be strong, 

And, inaccessible to wrong, 

Still like a martyr live and die ! 

(A pause.) 

The evening air grows dusk and brown ; 

I must go forth into the town, 

To visit beds of pain and death, 

Of restless limbs, and quivering breath, 
And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes 
That see, through tears, the sun go down, 
But nevermore shall see it rise. 

The poor in body and estate, 

The sick and the disconsolate, 

Must not on man’s convenience wait. 

(Goes out.) 

{Enter Lucifer, as a Priest.) 

Dkcifer {with a genuflexion , mocking). 
This is the Black Pater-noster. 

God was my foster, 

He fostered me 

Under the book of the Palm-tree ! 

St. Michael was my dame. 

He was born at Bethlehem, 

He was made of flesh and blood. 

God send me my right food, 

My right food, and shelter too, 

That I may to yon kirk go, 

To read upon yon sweet book 
Which the mighty God of heaven shook. 
Open, open, hell’s gates ! 

Shut, shut, heaven’s gates ! 

All the devils in the air 
The stronger be, that hear the Black 
Prayer ! 

{Looking round the church.) 

What a darksome and dismal place ! 

I wonder that any man has the face 
To call such a hole the House of the 
Lord, 

And the Gate of Heaven, — yet such is 
the word. 

Ceiling, and walls, and windows old, 
Covered with cobwebs, blackened with 
mould ; 

Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, 
Dust on the benches, and stalls, and 
chairs ! 


The pulpit, from which such ponderous 
sermons 

Have fallen down on the brains of the 
Germans, 

With about as much real edification 
As if a great Bible, bound in lead, 

Had fallen, and struck them on the 
head ; 

And I ought to remember that sensa¬ 
tion ! 

Here stands the holy-water stoup ! 
Holy-water it may be to many, 

But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennae ! 
It smells like a filthy fast-day soup ! 

Near it stands the box for the poor; 

With its iron padlock, safe and sure. 

I and the priest of the parish know 
Whither all these charities go ; 

Therefore, to keep up the institution, 

I will add my little contribution ! 

{He puts in money.) 

Underneath this mouldering tomb, 

With statue of stone, and scutcheon of 
brass, 

Slumbers a great lord of the village. 

All his life was riot and pillage, 

But at length, to escape the threatened 
doom 

Of the everlasting, penal fire, 

He died in the dress of a mendicant friar, 
And bartered his wealth for a daily mass. 
But all that afterwards came to pass, 

And whether he finds it dull or pleasant, 
Is kept a secret for the present, 

At his own particular desire. 

And here, in a corner of the wall, 
Shadowy, silent, apart from all, 

With its awful portal open wide, 

And its latticed windows on either side, 
And its step well worn by the bended 
knees 

Of one or two pious centuries, 

Stands the village confessional ! 

Within it, as an honored guest, 

I will sit me down awhile and rest ! 

{Seats himself in the confessional.) 

Here sits the priest; and faint and low, 
Like the sighing of an evening breeze, 
Comes through these painted lattices 
The ceaseless sound of human woe ; 
























232 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Here, while her bosom aches and throbs, 
With deep and agonizing sobs, 

That half are passion, half contrition, 
The luckless daughter of perdition 
Slowly confesses her secret shame ! 

The time, the place, the lover’s name ! 
Here the grim murderer, with a groan, 
From his bruised conscience rolls the 
stone, 

Thinking that thus he can atone 
For ravages of sword and flame ! 

Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly, 
How a priest can sit here so sedately, 
Reading, the whole year out and in, 
Naught but the catalogue of sin, 

And still keep any faith whatever 
In human virtue ! Never ! never ! 

I cannot repeat a thousandth part, 

Of the horrors and crimes and sins and 
woes 

That ai'ise, when with palpitating throes 
The graveyard in the human heart 
Gives up its dead, at the voice of the 
priest, 

As if he were an archangel, at least. 

It makes a peculiar atmosphere, 

This odor of earthly passions and crimes, 
Such as I like to breathe, at times, 

And such as often brings me here 
In the hottest and most pestilential season. 
To-day, I come for another reason ; 

To foster and ripen an evil thought 
In a heart that is almost to madness 
wrought, 

And to make a murderer out of a prince, 
A sleight of hand I learned long since ! 
He comes. In the twilight he will not see 
The difference between his priest and me ! 
In the same net was the mother caught! 
Prince Henry [entering and kneeling at 
the confessional ). Remorseful, pen¬ 
itent, and lowly, 

I come to crave, O Father holy, 

Thy benediction on my head. 

Lticifer. The benediction shall be said 
After confession, not before ! 

’T is a God-speed to the parting guest, 
Who stands already at the door, 
Sandalled with holiness, and dressed 
In garments pure from earthly stain. 
Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy 
breast ? 


Does the same madness fill thy brain ? 

Or have thy passion and unrest 
Vanished forever from thy mind ? 

Prince Henry. By the same madness 
still made blind, 

By the same passion still possessed,. 

I come again to the house of prayer, 

A man afflicted and distressed ! 

As in a cloudy atmosphere, 

Through unseen sluices of the air, 

A sudden and impetuous wind 
Strikes the great forest white with fear, 
And every branch, and bough, and spray 
Points all its quivering leaves one way, 
And meadows of grass, and fields of 
grain, 

And the clouds above, and the slanting 
rain, 

And smoke from chimneys of the town, 
Yield'themselves to it, and bow down, 

So does this dreadful purpose press 
Onward, with irresistible stress, 

And all my thoughts and faculties, 

Struck level by the strength of this, 

From their true inclination turn, 

And all stream forward to Salem ! 

Lucifer. Alas ! we are but eddies of 
dust, 

Uplifted by the blast, and whirled 
Along the highway of the world 
A moment only, then to fall 
Back to a common level all, 

At the subsiding of the gust ! 

Prince Henry. O holy Father ! par¬ 
don in me 

The oscillation of a mind 
Unsteadfast, and that cannot find 
Its centre of rest and harmony ! 
Forevermore before mine eyes 
This ghastly phantom flits and flies, 

And as a madman through a crowd, 

With frantic gestures and wild cries, 

It hurries onward, and aloud 
Repeats its awful prophecies ! 

Weakness is wretchedness ! To be strong 
Is to be happy ! I am weak, 

And cannot find the good I seek, 

Because I feel and fear the wrong ! 

Litcifer. Be not alarmed ! The Church 
is kind, 

And in her mercy and her meekness 
She meets half-way her children’s weak¬ 
ness, 








THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 233 


Writes their transgressions in the dust! 
Though in the Decalogue we find 
The mandate written, “ Thou shalt not 
kill! ” 

Yet there are cases when we must 
In war, for instance, or from scathe 
To guard and keep the one true Faith ! 
We must look at the Decalogue in the 
light 

Of an ancient statute, that was meant 
For a mild and general application, 

To be understood with the reservation, 
That, in certain instances, the Right 
Must yield to the Expedient ! 

Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die, 
What hearts and hopes would prostrate 
lie ! ' 

What noble deeds, what fair renown, 

Into the grave with thee go down ! 

What acts of valor and courtesy 
Remain undone, and die with thee ! 

Thou art the last of all thy race ! 

With thee a noble name expires, 

And vanishes from the earth’s face 
The glorious memory of thy sires ! 

She is a peasant. In her veins 
Flows common and plebeian blood ; 

It is such as daily and hourly stains 
The dust and the turf of battle plains, 

By vassals shed, in a crimson flood, 
Without reserve, and without reward, 

At the slightest summons of their lord ! 
But thine is precious ; the fore-appointed 
Blood of kings, of God’s anointed ! 
Moreover, what has the world in store 
For one like her, but tears and toil ? 
Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, 

A peasant’s child and a peasant’s wife, 
And her soul within her sick and sore 
With the roughness and barrenness of 
life ! 

I marvel not at the heart’s recoil 
From a fate like this, in one so tender, 
Nor at its eagerness to surrender 
All the wretchedness, want, and woe 
That await it in this world below, 

For the unutterable splendor 

Of the world of rest beyond the skies. 

So the Church sanctions the sacrifice : 
Therefore inhale this healing balm, 

And breathe this fresh life into thine ; 
Accept the comfort and the calm 
She offers, as a gift divine ; 


Let her fall down and anoint thy feet 
With the ointment costly and most sweet 
Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. 
Prince Henry. And will the righteous 
Heaven forgive ? 

No action, whether foul or fair, 

Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere 
A record, written by fingers ghostly, 

As a blessing or a curse, and mostly 
In the greater weakness or greater 
strength 

Of the acts which follow it, till at length 
The wrongs of ages are redressed, 

And the justice of God made manifest! 

Lucifer. In ancient records it is stated 
That, whenever an evil deed is done, 
Another devil is created 
To scourge and torment the offending 
one ! 

But evil is only good perverted, 

And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, 

But an angel fallen and deserted, 

Thrust from his Father’s house with a 
curse 

Into the black and endless night. 

Prince Henry. If justice rules the 
universe, 

From the good actions of good men 
Angels of light should be begotten, 

And thus the balance restored again. 
Lucifer. Yes ; if the world were not 
so rotten, 

And so given over to the Devil ! 

Prince Henry. But this deed, is it 
good or evil ? 

Have I thine absolution free 
To do it, and without restriction ? 

L^ucifer. Ay ; and from whatsoever sin 
Lieth around it and within, 

From all crimes in which it may involve 
thee, 

I now release thee and absolve thee ! 
Prince Henry. Give me thy holy 
benediction. 

Lucifer [stretchingforth his hand and 
muttering). 

Maledictione perpetua 
Maledicat vos 
Pater eternus ! 

The Angel [with the ceolian harp). 
Take heed ! take heed ! 

Noble art thou in thy birth, 







234 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


By the good and the great of earth 
Hast thou been taught! 

Be noble in every thought 
And in every deed ! 

Let not the illusion of thy senses 
Betray thee to deadly offences. 

Be strong ! be good ! be pure ! 

The right only shall endure, 

All things else are but false pretences. 

I entreat thee, I implore, 

Listen no more 

To the suggestions of an evil spirit, 

That even now is there, 

Making the foul seem fair, 

And selfishness itself a virtue and a 
merit! 

A room in the farm-house. 

Gottlieb. It is decided! For many 
days, 

And nights as many, we have had 
A nameless terror in our breast, 

Making us timid, and afraid 
Of God, and his mysterious ways ! 

We have been sorrowful and sad ; 

Much have we suffered, much have 
prayed 

That he would lead us as is best, 

And show us what his will required. 

It is decided ; and we give 
Our child, O Prince, that you may live ! 
Ursula. It is of God. He has in¬ 
spired 

This purpose in her ; and through pain, 
Out of a world of sin and woe, 

He takes her to himself again. 

The mother’s heart resists no longer; 
With the Angel of the Lord in vain 
It wrestled, for he was the stronger. 

Gottlieb. As Abraham offered long ago 
His son unto the Lord, and even 
The Everlasting Father in heaven 
Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, 

So do I offer up my daughter ! 

(Ursula hides her face.) 

Elsie. My life is little, 

Only a cup of water, 

But pure and limpid. 

Take it, O my Prince ! 

Let it refresh you, 

Let it restore you. 

It is given willingly, 


It is given freely ; 

May God bless the gift! 

Prince Henry. And the giver ! 

Gottlieb. Amen ! 

Prince Henry. I accept it ! 

Gottlieb. Where are the children ? 

Ursula. They are already asleep. 

Gottlieb. What if they were dead ? 

In the garden. 

Elsie. I have one thing to ask of you. 

Prince Henry. What is it ? 

It is already granted. 

Elsie. Promise me, 

When we are gone from here, and on our 
way 

Are journeying to Salerno, you will not, 
By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade 
me 

And turn me from my purpose ; but re¬ 
member 

That as a pilgrim to the Holy City 
Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of 
pardon 

Occupied wholly, so would I approach 
The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee, 
With my petition, putting off from me 
All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off 
my feet. 

Promise me this. 

Prince Henry. Thy words fall from 
thy lips 

Like roses from the lips of Angelo : and 
angels 

Might stoop to pick them up ! 

Elsie. Will you not promise ? 

Prince Henry. If ever we depart upon 
this journey, 

So long to one or both of us, I promise. 

Elsie. Shall we not go, then ? Have 
you lifted me 

Into the air, only to hurl me back 
Wounded upon the ground ? and offered 
me 

The waters of eternal life, to bid me 
Drink the polluted puddles of this world ? 

Prince He?iry. O Elsie ! what a 
lesson thou dost teach me ! 

The life which is, and that which is to 
come, 

Suspended hang in such nice equipoise 
A breath disturbs the balance ; and that 
scale 








THE GOLDE 

N LEGEND. 235 

In which we throw our hearts prepon- 

Pray for the Dead ! 

derates, 

Pray for the Dead ! 

And the other, like an empty one, flies 

up, 

Prince Henry. Why for the dead, who 

And is accounted vanity and air ! 

are at rest ? 

To me the thought of death is terrible, 

Pray for the living, in whose breast 

Having such hold on life. To thee it is 

The struggle between right and wrong 

not 

Is raging terrible and strong, 

So much even as the lifting of a latch ; 

As when good angels war with devils ! 

Only a step into the open air 

This is the Master of the Revels, 

Out of a tent already luminous 

Who, at life’s flowing feast, proposes 

With light that shines through its trans- 

The health of absent friends, and pledges, 

parent walls ! 

Not in bright goblets crowned with 

O pure in heart ! from thy sweet dust 

roses, 

shall grow 

And tinkling as we touch their edges, 

Lilies, upon whose petals will be written 

But with his dismal, tinkling bell, 

“ Ave Maria ” in characters of gold ! 

That mocks and mimics their funeral 
knell ! 

III. 

Crier of the Dead. 

A street in Strasburg. Night. Prince 

Wake ! wake ! 

Henry wandering alone, wrapped in a 

All ye that sleep ! 

cloak. 

Pray for the Dead ! 

Pray for the Dead ! 

Prince Henry. Still is the night. 

Prince Henry. Wake not, beloved ! 

The sound of feet 

be thy sleep 

Silent as night is, and as deep ! 

Has died away from the empty street, 

And like an artisan, bending down 

There walks a sentinel at thy gate 

His head on his anvil, the dark town 

Whose heart is heavy and desolate, 

Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. 

And the heavings of whose bosom 

Sleepless and restless, I alone, 

number 

In the dusk and damp of these walls of 

The respirations of thy slumber, 

stone, 

As if some strange, mysterious fate 

Wander and weep in my remorse ! 

Had linked two hearts in one, and mine 

Crier of the Dead (ringing a bell). 

Went madly wheeling about thine, 

Wake ! wake ! 

Only with wider and wilder sweep ! 

All ye that sleep ! 

Crier of the Dead [at a distance ). 

Pray for the Dead ! 

Pray for the Dead ! 

W ake! wake! 

All ye that sleep ! 

Prince Henry. Hark! with what ac- 

Pray for the Dead ! 

cents loud and hoarse 

Pray for the Dead ! 

This warder on the walls of death 

' 

Sends forth the challenge of his breath ! 

Prince Henry. Lo ! with what depth 

I see the dead that sleep in the grave ! 

of blackness thrown 

They rise up and their garments wave, 

Against the clouds, far up the skies 

Dimly and spectral, as they rise, 

The walls of the cathedral rise, 

With the light of another world in their 

Like a mysterious grove of stone, 

eyes ! 

With fitful lights and shadows blend¬ 
ing, 

Crier of the Dead. 

As from behind, the moon, ascending, 

Wake ! wake ! 

Lights its dim aisles and paths un- 

All ye that sleep ! 

known ! 








236 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



The wind is rising ; but the boughs 
Rise not and fall not with the wind 
That through their foliage sobs and 
soughs ; 

Only the cloudy rack behind, 

Drifting onward, wild and ragged, 

Gives to each spire and buttress jagged 
A seeming motion undefined. 

Below on the square, an armed knight, 
Still as a statue and as white, 

Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams 
quiver 

Upon the points of his armor bright 
As on the ripples of a river. 

He lifts the visor from his cheek, 


And beckons, and makes as he would 
speak. 

Walter the Minnesinger. Friend ! can 
you tell me where alight 
Thuringia’s horsemen for the night ? 

For I have lingered iii the rear, 

And wander vainly up and down. 

Prince Henry. I am a stranger in the 
town, 

As thou art; but the voice I hear 
Is not a stranger to mine ear. 

Thou art Walter of the Yogelwied ! 

Walter. Thou hast guessed rightly; 
and thy name 
Is Henry of Hoheneck ! 


























THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 237 


Prince Henry. Ay, the same. 

Walter {embracing him). Come closer, 
closer to my side ! 

What brings thee hither ? What potent 
charm 

Has drawn thee from thy German farm 
Into the old Alsatian city ? 

Prince Llenry. A tale of wonder and 
of pity ! 

A wretched man, almost by stealth 
Dragging my body to Salem, 

In the vain hope and search for health, 
And destined never to return. 

Already thou hast heard the rest. 

But what brings thee, thus armed and 
dight 

In the equipments of a knight ? 

Walter. Dost thou not see upon my 
breast 

The cross of the Crusaders shine ? 

My pathway leads to Palestine. 

Prince Henry. Ah, would that way 
were also mine ! 

O noble poet ! thou whose heart 
Is like a nest of singing-birds 
Rocked on the topmost bough of life, 
Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, 

And in the clangor of the strife 
Mingle the music of thy words ? 

Walter. My hopes are high, my heart 
is proud, 

And like a trumpet long and loud, 
Thither my thoughts all clang and ring ! 
My life is in my hand, and lo ! 

I grasp and bend it as a bow, 

And shoot forth from its trembling string 
An arrow, that shall be, perchance, 

Like the arrow of the Israelite king 
Shot from the window toward the east, 
That of the Lord’s deliverance ! 

Prince Henry. My life, alas ! is what 
thou seest ! 

O enviable fate ! to be 
Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee 
With lyre and sword, with song and steel; 
A hand to smite, a heart to feel ! 

Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, 
Thou givest all unto thy Lord; 

While I, so mean and abject grown, 

Am thinking of myself alone. 

Walter. Be patient : Time will rein¬ 
state 

Thy health and fortunes. 


Prince Henry. ’T is too late ! 

I cannot strive against my fate ! 

Walter. Come with me ; for my steed 
is weary ; 

Our journey has been long and dreary, 
And, dreaming of his stall, he dints 
With his impatient hoofs the flints. 

Prince Henry {aside). I am ashamed, 
in my disgrace, 

To look into that noble face ! 

To-morrow, Walter, let it be. 

Walter. To-morrow, at the dawn of 
day, 

I shall again be on my way. 

Come with me to the hostelry, 

For I have many things to say. 

Our journey into Italy 
Perchance together we may make ; 

Wilt thou not do it for my sake ? 

Prince Henry. A sick man’s pace 
would but impede 
Thine eager and impatient speed. 

Besides, my pathway leads me round 
To Hirschau, in the forest’s bound, 
Where I assemble man and steed, 

And all things for my journey’s need. 

{They go out.) 

Lucifer {flying over the city). Sleep, 
sleep, O city ! till the light 
Wake you to sin and crime again, 

Whilst on your dreams, like dismal 
rain, 

I scatter downward through the night 
My maledictions dark and deep. 

I have more martyrs in your walls 
Than God has ; and they cannot sleep ; 
They are my bondsmen and my thralls ; 
Their wretched lives are full of pain, 

Wild agonies of nerve and brain ; 

And every heart-beat, every breath, 

Is a convulsion worse than death ! 

Sleep, sleep, O city ! though within 
The circuit of your walls there be 
No habitation free from sin, 

■ And all its nameless misery ; 

The aching heart, the aching head, 

Grief for the living and the dead, 

And foul corruption of the time, 

Disease, distress, and want, and woe, 

And crimes, and passions that may 
grow 

Until they ripen into crime ! 







238 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 






Square in f ront of the Cathedral. Easter 
Sunday. Friar Cuti-ibert preaching 
to the crowd from1 a pulpit in the open 
air. Prince Henry and Elsie cross¬ 
ing the square. 

Prince Henry. This is the day, when 
from the dead 

Our Lord arose ; and everywhere, 

Out of their darkness and despair, 
Triumphant over fears and foes, 

The hearts of his disciples rose, 

When to the women, standing near, 


All hearts are glad ; and free from care 
The faces of the people shine. 

See what a crowd is in the square, 

Gayly and gallantly arrayed ! 

Elsie. Let us go back ; I am afraid ! 

Prince Henry. Nay, let us mount the 
church-Steps here, 

Under the doorway’s sacred shadow ; 

We can see all things, and be freer 
From the crowd that madly heaves and 
presses ! 

Elsie. What a gay pageant! what 
bright dresses ! 



The Angel in shining vesture said, 

“ The Lord is risen ; he is not here ! ” 
And, mindful that the day is come, 

On all the hearths in Christendom 
The fires are quenched, to be again 
Rekindled from the sun, that high 
Is dancing in the cloudless sky. 

The churches are all decked with flowers, 

The salutations among men 

Are but the Angel’s words divine, 

“ Christ is arisen ! ” and the bells 
Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, 

And chant together in their towers. 


It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. 

What is that yonder on the square ? 

Prince Henry. A pulpit in the open 
air, 

And a Friar, who is preaching to the 
crowd 

In a voice so deep and clear and loud, 

That, if we listen, and give heed, 

His lowest words will reach the ear. 

Friar Cuthbert {gesticulating and crack¬ 
ing a postilion" 1 s whip). What ho ! 
good people ! do you not hear ? 

Dashing along at the top of his speed, 


















































































THE GOLDEN LEGEND . 239 


Booted and spurred, on his jaded 
steed, 

{Great applause among the crowd.) 

A courier comes with words of cheer. 

To come back to my text ! When the 

Courier ! what is the news, I prajr ? 

news was first spread 

“ Christ is arisen ! ” Whence come you ? 

That Christ was arisen indeed from the 

“ From court.” 

dead, 

1 hen I do not believe it; you say it in 

Very great was the joy of the angels in 

sport. 

heaven ; 



{Cracks his whip again.) 

Ah, here comes another, riding this 
way; 

We soon shall know what he has to say. 

Courier ! what are the tidings to-day ? 

“ Christ is arisen ! ” Whence come you ? 
“ From town.” 

Then I do not believe it; away with you, 
clown. 

{Cracks his whip more violently.) 

And here comes a third, who is spurring 
amain ; 

What news do you bring, with your loose¬ 
hanging rein, 

Your spurs wet with blood, and your 
bridle with foam ? 

“ Christ is arisen ! ” Whence come you ? 
“ From Rome.” 

Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. 

Ride on with the news, at the top of 
your speed ! 


And as great the dispute as to who should 
carry 

The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, 

Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. 

Old Father Adam was first to pro¬ 
pose, 

As being the author of all our woes ; 

But he was refused, for fear, said they, 

He would stop to eat apples on the 
way ! 

Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, 

Because he might meet with his brother 
Cain ! 

Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness 
for wine 

Should delay him at every tavern-sign ; 

And John the Baptist could not get a 
vote, 

On account of his old-fashioned camel’s- 
hair coat; 

And the Penitent Thief, who died on the 
cross, 





































24c THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Was reminded that all his bones were 
broken ! 

Till at last, when each in turn had 
spoken, 

The company being still at a loss, 

The Angel, who rolled away the stone, 
Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone, 

And filled with glory that gloomy prison, 
And said to the Virgin, “ The Lord is 
arisen ! ” 

( The Cathedral bells ring.) 

But hark ! the bells are beginning to 
chime ; 

And I feel that I am growing hoarse. 

I will put an end to my discourse, 

And leave the rest for some other time. 
For the bells themselves are the best of 
preachers ; 

Their brazen lips are learned teachers, 
From their pulpits of stone, in the upper 
air, 

Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, 
Shriller than trumpets under the Law, 
Now a sermon and now a prayer. 

The clangorous hammer is the tongue, 
This way, that way, beaten and swung, 
That from mouth of brass, as from Mouth 
of Gold, 

May be taught the Testaments, New and 
Old. 

And above it the great cross-beam of 
wood 

Representeth the Holy Rood, 

Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are 
hung. 

And the wheel wherewith it is swayed 
and rung 

Is the mind of man, that round and round 
Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound ! 
And the rope, with its twisted cordage 
three, 

Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity 
Of Morals, and Symbols, and History ; 
And the upward and downward motions 
show 

That we touch upon matters high and 
low ; 

And the constant change and transmu¬ 
tation 

Of action and of contemplation, 
Downward, the Scripture brought from 
on high, 


Upward, exalted again to the sky ; 

Downward, the literal interpretation, 

Upward, the Vision and Mystery ! 

And now, my hearers, to make an end, 

I have only one word more to say ; 

In the church, in honor of Easter day, 

Will be represented a Miracle Play ; 

And I hope you will all have the grace to 
attend. 

Christ bring us at last to his felicity ! 

Pax vobiscum ! et Benedicite ! 

In the Cathedral. 

Chant. 

Kyrie Eleison ! 

Christe Eleison ! 

Elsie. I am at home here in my Fa¬ 
ther’s house! 

These paintings of the Saints upon the 
walls 

Have all familiar and benignant faces. 

Prince Henry. The portraits of the 
family of God ! 

Thine own hereafter shall be placed 
among them. 

Elsie. How very grand it is and won¬ 
derful ! 

Never have I beheld a church so splen¬ 
did ! 

Such columns, and such arches, and such 
windows, 

So many tombs and statues in the chapels, 

And under them so many confessionals. 

They must be for the rich. I should not 
like 

To tell my sins in such a church as this. 

Who built it ? 

Prince Henry. A great master of his * 
craft, 

Erwin von Steinbach ; but not he alone, 

For many generations labored with him. 

Children that came to see these Saints in 
stone, 

As day by day out of the blocks they 
rose, 

Grew old and died, and still the work 
went on, 

And on, and on, and is not yet com¬ 
pleted. 

The generation that succeeds our own 

Perhaps may finish it. The architect 








THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


241 



Built his great heart into these sculp¬ 
tured stones, 

And with him toiled his children, and 
their lives 

Were builded, with his own, into the 
walls, 

As offerings unto God. You see that 
statue 

•Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes 

Upon the Pillar of the Angels yonder. 

That is the image of the master, carved 

By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina. 

Elsie. How beautiful is the column 
that he looks at ! 

Prince Hemy. That, too, she sculp¬ 
tured. At the base of it 

Stand the Evangelists ; above their heads 

Four Angels blowing upon marble trum¬ 
pets, 

And over them the blessed Christ, sur¬ 
rounded 

By his attendant ministers, upholding 

The instruments of his passion. 

Elsie. O my Lord ! 

Would I could leave behind me upon 
earth 


Some monument to thy glory, such as 
this ! 

P?'ince Henry. A greater monument 
than this thou leavest 

In thine own life, all purity and love ! 

See, too, the Rose, above the western 
portal 

Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous 
colors, 

The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness ! 

Elsie. And, in the gallery, the long 
line of statues, 

Christ with his twelve Apostles watching 
us ! 

(A Bishop in armor , booted and spurred, 
passes with his tram.) 

Prince Henry. But come away ; we 
have not time to look. 

The crowd already fills the church, and 
yonder 

Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, 

Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims 

The Mystery that will now be repre- ■ 
sented. 


16 






























































































242 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


THE NATIVITY. 

A MIRACLE-PLAY. 

INTROITUS. 

PrcEco. Come, good people, all and 
each, 

Come and listen to our speech ! 

In your presence here I stand, 

With a trumpet in my hand, 

To announce the Easter Play, 

Which we represent to-day ! 

First of all we shall rehearse, 

In our action and our verse, 

The Nativity of our Lord, 

As written in the old record 
Of the Protevangelion, 

So that he who reads may run ! 

[Blows his tnwipet.) 

I. HEAVEN. 

Mercy {at the feet of God). Have pity, 
Lord ! be not afraid 

To save mankind, whom thou hast made, 
Nor let the souls that were betrayed 
Perish eternally ! 

Justice. It cannot be, it must not be ! 
When in the garden placed by thee, 

The fruit of the forbidden tree 
He ate, and he must die ! 

Mercy. Have pity, Lord ! let penitence 
Atone for disobedience, 

Nor let the fruit of man’s offence 
Be endless misery ! 

Justice. What penitence proportionate 
Can e’er be felt for sin so great ? 

Of the forbidden fruit he ate, 

And damned must he be ! 

God. He shall be saved, if that within 
The bounds of earth one free from sin 
Be found, who for his kith and kin 
Will suffer martyrdom. 

The Four Virtues. Lord ! we have 
searched the world around, 

From centre to the utmost bound, 

But no such mortal can be found ; 
Despairing, back we come. 

Wisdom. No mortal, but a God made 
man, 

Can ever carry out this plan, 

Achieving what none other can, 

Salvation unto all! 


God. Go, then, O my beloved Son ! 

It can by thee alone be done ; 

By thee the victory shall be won 
O’er Satan and the Fall ! 

{Here the Angel Gabriel shall leave 
Paradise and fly towards the earth ; the 
jaws of Hell open below , and the Devils 
walk about , making a great noise.) 

II. MARY AT THE WELL. 

Mary. Along the garden walk, and 
thence 

Thiough the wicket in the garden 
fence, 

I steal with quiet pace, 

My pitcher at the well to fill, 

That lies so deep and cool and still 
In this sequestered place. 

These sycamores keep guard around ; 

I see no face, I hear no sound, 

Save bubblings of the spring, 

And my companions, who within 
The threads of gold and scarlet spin, 

And .at their labor sing. 

The Angel Gabriel. Hail, Virgin 
Mary, full of grace ! 

{Here Mary looketh around her , trem¬ 
blings and then saith :) 

Mary. Who is it speaketh in this 
place, 

With such a gentle voice ? 

Gabriel. The Lord of heaven is with 
thee now ! 

Blessed among all women thou, 

Who art his holy choice ! 

Mary {setting down the pitcher). What 
can this mean ? No one is near, 
And yet, such sacred words I hear, 

I almost fear to stay. 

{Here the A Age l appearmg to her , shall 
say :) 

Gabriel. Fear not, O Mary ! but be¬ 
lieve ! 

For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive 
A child this very day. 

Fear not, O Mary ! from the sky 
The majesty of the Most High 
Shall overshadow thee ! 

Mary. Behold the handmaid of the 
Lord ! 






THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


24 3 



According to thy holy word, 

So be it unto me ! 

(Here the Devils shall again make a great 
noise , under the stage.) 

III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLAN¬ 
ETS, BEARING THE STAR OF BETH¬ 
LEHEM. 

The Angels. The Angels of the 
Planets Seven, 

Across the shining fields of heaven 
The natal star we bring ! 

Dropping our sevenfold virtues down, 

As priceless jewels in the crown 
Of Christ, our new-born King. 
Raphael. I am the Angel of the Sun, 
Whose flaming wheels began to run 
When God’s almighty breath 


Said to the darkness and the Night, 

Let there be light! and there was 
light! 

I bring the gift of Faith. 

Gabriel. I am the Angel of the Moon, 
Darkened, to be rekindled soon 
Beneath the azure cope ! 

Nearest to earth, it is my ray 
That best illumes the midnight way. 

I bring the gift of Hope ! 

Anael. The Angel of the Star of 
Love, 

The Evening Star, that shines above 
The place where lovers be, 

Above all happy hearths and homes, 

On roofs uf thatch, or golden domes, 

I give him Charity ! 

Zobiachel. The Planet Jupiter is 
mine ! 

The mightiest star of all that shine, 






















































244 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Except the sun alone ! 

He is the High Priest of the Dove, 

And sends, from his great throne above, 
Justice, that shall atone ! 

Michael. The Planet Mercury, whose 
place 

Is nearest to the sun in space, 

Is my allotted sphere ! 

And with celestial ardor swift 
I bear upon my hands the gift 
Of heavenly Prudence here ! 


IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST. 

The stable of the Inn. The VIRGIN and 
Child. Three Gypsy Kings , Gaspar, 
Melchior, and Belshazzar, shall 
come in. 

Gaspar. Hail to thee, Jesus of Naz¬ 
areth ! 

Though in a manger thou draw breath, 
Thou art greater than Life and Death, 
Greater than Joy or Woe ! 



Uriel. I am the Minister of Mars, 

The strongest star among the stars ! 

My songs of power prelude 
The march and battle of man’s life, 

And for the suffering and the strife, 

I give him Fortitude ! 

Orifel. The Angel of the uttermost 
Of all the shining, heavenly host, 

From the far-off expanse 
Of the Saturnian, endless space 
I bring the last, the crowning grace, 

The gift of Temperance ! 

(A sudden light shines from the windozus 
of the stable in the village below.) 


This cross upon the line of life 
Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, 

And through a yegion with peril rife 
In darkness shalt thou go ! 

Melchior. Hail to thee, King of Jeru¬ 
salem ! 

Though humbly born in Bethlehem, 

A sceptre and a diadem 

Await thy brow and hand ! 

The sceptre is a simple reed, 

The crown will make thy temples bleed, 
And in thy hour of greatest need, 
Abashed thy subjects stand ! 
Belshazzar. Flail to thee, Christ of 
Christendom ! 































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


245 



O’er all the earth thy kingdom come ! 
From distant Trebizond to Rome 
Thy name shall men adore ! 

Peace and good-will among all men, 

The Virgin has returned again, 

Returned the old Saturnian reign 
And Golden Age once more. 

The Child Christ. Jesus, the Son of 
God, am I, 

Born here to suffer and to die 
According to the prophecy, 

That other men may live ! 

The Virgin. And now these clothes, 
that wrapped him, take 
And keep them precious, for his sake ; 
Our benediction thus we make, 

Naught else have we to give. 

(She gives them swaddling-clothes, and 
they depart.) 

V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 

(Here shall Joseph come in, leading an 
ass, on which are seated Mary and the 
Child.) 


Mary. Here will we rest us, under 
these 

O’erhanging branches of the trees, 

Where robins chant their Litanies 
And canticles of joy. 

Joseph. My saddle-girths have given 
way 

With trudging through the heat to¬ 
day ; 

To you I think it is but play 
To ride and hold the boy. 

Mary. Hark ! how the robins shout 
and sing, 

As if to hail their infant King ! 

I will alight at yonder spring 
To wash his little coat. 

Joseph. And I will hobble well the 
ass, 

Lest, being loose upon the grass, 

He should escape ; for, by the mass, 

He’s nimble as a goat. 

(Here Mary shall alight and go to the 
spring.) 













246 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Mary. O Joseph ! I am much afraid, 
For men are sleeping in the shade; 

I fear that we shall be waylaid, 

And robbed and beaten sore ! 

{Here a band of robbers shall be seen sleep¬ 
ing, two of whom shall rise and come 
forward.) 

Dumachus. Cock’s soul ! deliver up 
your gold ! 

Joseph. I pray you, Sirs, let go your 
hold ! 

You see that I am weak and old, 

Of wealth I have no store. 
Dumachus. Give up your money ! 
Titus. Prithee cease. 

Let these good people go in peace. 

Dumachus. First let them pay for 
their release, 

And then go on their way. 

Titus. These forty groats I give in fee, 
If thou wilt only silent be. 

Mary. May God be merciful to thee, 
Upon the Judgment Day ! 

Jesus. When thirty years shall have 
gone by, 

I at Jerusalem shall die, 

By Jewish hands exalted high 
On the accursed tree. 

Then on my right and my left side, 

These thieves shall both be crucified, 

And Titus thenceforth shall abide 
In paradise with me. 

{Here a great ntmor of trumpets and 
horses , like the noise of a king with his 
army , and the robbers shall take flight.) 

VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS. 

King Herod. Potz-tausend ! Himmel- 
sacrament! 

Filled am I with great wonderment 
At this unwelcome news ! 

Am I not Herod ? Who shall dare 
My crown to take, my sceptre bear, 

As king among the Jews ? 

{Here he shall stride up and down and 
flourish his sword.) 

What ho ! I fain would drink a can 
Of the strong wine of Canaan ! 

The wine of Helbon bring 
I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, 


As red as blood, as hot as fire, 

And fit for any king ! 

{He quaffs great goblets of wine.) 

Now at the window will I stand, 

While in the street the armed band 
The little children slay : 

The babe just born in Bethlehem 
Will surely slaughtered be with them, 
Nor live another day ! 

{Here a voice of lamentation shall be heard 
in the street.) 

Rachel. O wicked king ! O cruel 
speed ! 

To do this most unrighteous deed ! 

My children all are slain : 

Herod. Ho, seneschal! another cup ! 
With wine of Sorek fill it up ! 

I would a bumper drain ! 

Rahab. May maledictions fall and 
blast 

Thyself and lineage, to the last 
Of all thy kith and kin ! 

Iderod. Another goblet ! quick ! and 
stir 

Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh 
And calamus therein ! 

Soldiers {in the street). Give up thy 
child into our hands ! 

It is King Herod who commands 
That he should thus be slain ! 

The Nurse Medusa. O monstrous 
men ! What have ye done ! 

It is King Herod’s only son 

That ye have cleft in twain ! 

Herod. Ah, luckless day! What 
words of fear 

Are these that smite upon my ear 
With such a doleful sound ! 

What torments rack my heart and head ! 
Would I were dead ! would I were dead, 
And buried in the ground ! 

{He falls down and writhes as though 
eaten by worms. Hell opens , and 
Satan and Astaroth come forth , and 
drag him down.) 

VII. JESUS AT PLAY WITH HIS SCHOOL¬ 
MATES. 

Jesus. The shower is over. Let us 
play, 








THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 247 


And make some sparrows out of clay, 
Down by the river’s side. 

Judas. See, how the stream has over¬ 
flowed 

Its banks, and o’er the meadow road 
Is spreading far and wide ! 

(They draw water out of the river by 
channels, and form little pools. Jesus 
makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the 
other boys do the same.) 

Jesus. Look! look ! how prettily I 
make * 


These little sparrows by the lake 

Bend down their necks and drink ! 
Now will I make them sing and soar 
So far, they shall return no more 
Unto this river’s brink. 

Judas. That canst thou not! They 
are but clay, 

They cannot sing, nor fly away 
Above the meadow lands ! 

Jesus. Fly, fly ! ye sparrows ! you are 
free ! 

And while you live, remember me 
Who made you with my hands. 

{Here Jesus shall clap his hands, and the 
sparrows shall fv away, chirruping.) 


Judas. Thou art a sorcerer, I know ; 
Oft has my mother told me so, 

I will not play with thee ! 

{He strikes Jesus on the right side.) 

Jesus. Ah, Judas ! thou hast smote 
my side, 

And when I shall be crucified, 

There shall I pierced be ! 

{Here Joseph shall come in, and say :) 

Joseph. Ye wicked boys ! why do ye 
play, 


And break the holy Sabbath clay ? 

What, think ye, will your mothers say 
To see you in such plight ! 

In such a sweat and such a heat, 

With all that mud upon your feet ! 

There’s not a beggar in the street 
Makes such a sorry sight ! 

VIII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 

{The Rabbi Ben Israel, with a long 
beard, sitting on a high stool, with a rod 
in his hand.) 

Rabbi. I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, 
Throughout this village known full well, 





























































































248 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

And, as my scholars all will tell, 

Come, Aleph, Beth ; dost thou forget ? 

Learned in things divine ; 

Cock’s soul ! thou ’dst rather play ! 

The Cabala and Talmud hoar 

Jesus. What Aleph means I fain 

Than all the prophets prize I more, 

would know, 

For water is all Bible lore, 

Before I any further go ! 

But Mishna is strong wine. 

Rabbi. 0 , by Saint Peter! wouldst 
thou so ? 

My fame extends from West to East, 

Come hither, boy, to me. 

And always, at the Purim feast, 

As surely as the letter Jod 

I am as drunk as any beast, 

Once cried aloud, and spake to God, 

That wallows in his sty ; 

So surely shalt thou feel this rod, 

The wine it so elateth me, 

And punished shalt thou be ! 

That I no difference can see 

Between “ Accursed Hainan be ! ” 

[Here Rabbi Ben Israel shall lift up his 

And “ Blessed be Mordecai! ” 

rod to strike Jesus, and his right arm 
shall be paralyzed.) 

Come hither, Judas Iscariot, 

IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS. 

Say, if thy lesson thou hast got 

From the Rabbinical Book or not. 

( J ESUS sitting among his playmates crowned 

Why howl the dogs at night ? 

with flowers as their King.) 

Judas. In the Rabbinical Book, it 

Boys. We spread our garments on the 

saith 

ground ! 

The dogs howl, when with icy breath 

With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned, 

Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, 

While like a guard we stand around, 

Takes through the town his flight ! 

And hail thee as our King ! 

Rabbi. Well, boy ! now say, if thou 

Thou art the new King of the Jews ! 

art wise, 

Nor let the passers-by refuse 

When the Angel of Death, who is full of 

To bring that homage which men use 

eyes, 

To majesty to bring. 

Comes where a sick man dying lies, 

What doth he to the wight ? 

[Here a traveller shall go by , and the boys 

Judas. Pie stands beside him, dark 

shall lay hold of his garments and say :) 

and tall, 

Boys. Come hither ! and all reverence 

Holding a sword, from which doth fall 

pay 

Into his mouth a drop of gall, 

Unto our monarch, crowned to-day ! 

And so he turneth white. 

Then go rejoicing on your way, 

Rabbi. And now, my Judas, say to me 

In all prosperity ! 

What the great Voices Four may be, 

Traveller. Hail to the King of Beth- 

That quite across the world do flee, 

lehem, x 

And are not heard by men ? 

Who weareth in his diadem 

Judas. The Voice of the Sun in 

The yellow crocus for the gem 

heaven’s dome, 

The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, 

Of his authority ! 

The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, 

[He passes by ; and others come in , bearing 

And the Angel of the Rain ! 

on a litter a sick child.) 

Rabbi. Right are thine answers every 

Boys. Set down the litter and draw 

one ! 

near ! 

Now little Jesus, the carpenter’s son, 

The King of Bethlehem is here ! 

Let us see how thy task is done, 

What ails the child, who seems to fear 

Canst thou thy letters say ? 

That we shall do him harm ? 

Jesus. Aleph. 

The Bearers. He climbed up to the 

Rabbi. What next ? Do not stop yet ! 

robin’s nest, 

Go on with all the alphabet. 

And out there darted, from his rest, 







THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


249 


A serpent with a crimson crest, 

And stung him in the arm. 

Jesus. Bring him to me, and let me 
feel 

The wounded place; my touch can 
heal 

The sting of serpents, and can steal 
The poison from the bite ! 

[He touches the wound, and the boy begins 
to cry.) 

Cease to lament! I can foresee 



IV. 

The road to Hirschau. Prince Henry and Elsie, with their attendants, on horse¬ 
back. 

Elsie. Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bear¬ 
ing 

Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring ! 

Prince Henry. This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain, 

But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain. 

Elsie. Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with the 
stigma 

Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma. 

Prince Henry. Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may 
betide; 

Else why am -I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel’s 
side ? 


That thou hereafter known shalt be 
Among the men who follow me, 

As Simon the Canaanite ! 

EPILOGUE. 

In the after part of the day 
Will be represented another play, 

Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, 
Beginning directly after Nones ! 

At the close of which we shall accord, 
By way of benison and reward, 

The sight of a holy Martyr’s bones ! 
























250 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



and the great dog under the creaking 
wain 

Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while 
onward the horses toil and strain. 
Prince Henry. Now they stop at the 
wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs 
with the landlord’s daughter, 

While out of the dripping trough the horses 
distend their leathern sides with water. 
Elsie. All through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh his soul with 
love ; 

Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above. 

Prince Henry. Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the high¬ 
way ends, 

And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends. 

Elsie. I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat ; 

The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses’ feet. 


(They turn down a green lane.) 


Elsie. Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles 
below 

Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest snow. 
















THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Prince Henry. Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant 
hill; 

We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still. 

Elsie. Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by our 
side ! 

What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide ? 

Prince Henry. It is the home of the Counts of Calva; well have I known these 
scenes of old, 

Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the 
wold. 


Elsie. Hark ! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing for 
rain ! 

Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain. 

Prince Henry. They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a little 
cloud, 

That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. 

(They pass on.) 

The Convent of Hirschau in the Black Forest. The Co?ivent cellar. Friar Claus 
comes in with a light and a basket of empty fagons. 

• Friar Claus. I always enter this sacred place 

With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, 

Pausing long enough on each stair 
















252 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND . 


To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, 

And a benediction on the vines 

That produce these various sorts of wines ! 



For my part, I am well content 

That we have got through with the tedious Lent ! 

Fasting is all very well for those 

Who have to contend with invisible foes : 

But I am quite sure it does not agree 
With a quiet, peaceable man like me, 

Who am not of that nervous and 

--- - c 


That are always distressed in body and 
mind ! 

And at times it really does me good 
To come down among this brother¬ 
hood, 

Dwelling forever under ground, 

Silent, contemplative, round and sound ; 
Each one old, and brown with mould, 

But filled to the lips with the ardor of 
youth, 


With the latent power and love of trutn, 
And with virtues fervent and manifold. 

I have heard it said, that at Easter¬ 
tide, 

When buds are swelling on every side, 
And the sap begins to move in the 
vine, 

Then in all cellars, far and wid 5 , 

The oldest, as well as the newest, wine 



















1 




THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Begins to stir itself, and ferment, 

With a kind of revolt and discontent 
At being so long in darkness pent, 

And fain would burst from its sombre tun 
To bask on the hillside in the sun ; 

As in the bosom of us poor friars, 

The tumult of half-subdued desires 
For the world that we have left behind 
Disturbs at times all peace of mind ! 

And now that we have lived through 
Lent, 

My duty it is, as often before, 

To open awhile the prison-door, 

And give these restless spirits vent. 


Now here is a cask that stands alone, 
And has stood a hundred years or more, 
Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, 
Trailing and sweeping along the floor, 
Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, 
Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, 

Till his beard has grown through the 
table of stone ! 

It is of the quick and not of the dead ! 

In its veins the blood is hot and red, 

And a heart still beats in those ribs of 
oak 

That time may have tamed, but has not 
broke ! 


































254 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 





It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, 

Is one of the three best kinds of wine, 
And costs some hundred florins the 
ohm ; 

But that I do not consider dear, 

When I remember that every year 
Four butts are sent to the Pope of 
Rome. 

And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, 
The old rhyme keeps running in my 
brain : 

At Bacharach on the Rhine, 

At Hochheim on the Main, 

And at Wiirzburg on the Stem, 

Grow the three best kinds of wine ! 

They are all good wines, and better far 
Than those of the Neckar, or those of the 
Ahr. 

In particular, Wurzburg well may boast 
Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, 
Which of all wines I like the most. 

This I shall draw for the Abbot’s drinking, 


Who seems to be much of my way of 
thinking. 

(Fills a flagon.) 

Ah ! how the streamlet laughs and sings ! 

What a delicious fragrance springs 

From the deep flagon, while it fills, 

As of hyacinths and daffodils ! 

Between this cask and the Abbot’s 
lips 

Many have been the sips and slips ; 

Many have been the draughts of wine, 

On their way to his, that have stopped at 
mine ; 

And many a time my soul has hankered 

For a deep draught out of his silver 
tankard, 

When it should have been busy with 
other affairs, 

Less with its longings and more with its 
prayers. 

But now there is no such awkward con¬ 
dition, 






















































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


255 


No danger of death and eternal perdi¬ 
tion ; 

So here’s to the Abbot and Brothers all, 
Who dwell in this convent of Peter and 
Paul! 

{He drinks.) 

O cordial delicious ! O soother of pain ! 
It flashes like sunshine into my brain ! 

A benison rest on the Bishop who sends 
Such a fudder of wine as this to his 
friends ! 


What a seething and simmering in his 
breast! 

As if the heaving of his great heart 
Would burst his belt of oak apart ! 

Let me unloose this button of wood, 

And quiet a little his turbulent mood. 

{Sets it running.) 

See ! how its currents gleam and shine, 
As if they had caught the purple hues 
Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, 
Descending and mingling with the dews ; 



And now a flagon for such as may ask 

A draught from the noble Bacharach 
cask, 

And I will be gone, though I know full 
well 

The cellar’s a cheerfuller place than the 
cell. 

Behold where he stands, all sound and 
good, 

Brown and old in his oaken hood ; 

Silent he seems externally 

As any Carthusian monk may be : 

But within, what a spirit of deep unrest ! 


Or as if the grapes were stained with the 
blood 

Of the innocent boy, who, some years 
back, 

Was taken and crucified by the Jews, 

In that ancient town of Bacharach ; 
Perdition upon those infidel Jews, 

In that ancient town of Bacharach ! 

The beautiful town, that gives us wine 
With the fragrant odor of Muscadine ! 

I should deem it wrong to let this pass 
Without first touching my lips to the * 
glass, 











256 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


For here in the midst of the current I 
Stand, 

Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the 
river, 

Taking toll upon either hand, 

And much more grateful to the giver. 

{He drinks.) 

Here, now, is a very inferior kind, 

Such as in any town you may find, 

Such as'one might imagine would suit 
The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. 


Being rather the rude disciples of beer 
Than of anything more refined and 
dear ! 

[Fills the other flagon and departs .) 

The Scriptorium. Friar Pacificus 
transcribing and illuminating. 

Friar Pacificus. It is growing dark ! 
Yet one line more, 

And then my work for to-day is o’er. 

I come again to the name of the Lord ! 
Ere I that awful name record, 



And, after all, it was not a crime, 

For he won thereby Dorf Huffelsheim. 

A jolly old toper ! who at a pull 
Could drink a postilion’s jack-boot full, 
And ask with a laugh, when that was 
done, 

If the fellow had left the other one ! 

This wine is as good as we can afford 
To the friars, who sit at the lower 
board, 

And cannot distinguish bad from good, 
And are far better off than if they 
could, 


That is spoken so lightly among men, 

Let me pause awhile, and wash my 
pen ; 

Pure from blemish and blot must it be 
When it writes that word of mystery ! 

Thus have I labored on and on, 

Nearly through the Gospel of John. 

Can it be that from the lips 
Of this same gentle Evangelist, 

That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, 
Came the dread Apocalypse ! 

It has a very awful look, 

































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 257 


As it stands there at the end of the 
book, 

Like the sun in an eclipse. 

Ah me ! when I think of that vision 
divine, 

Think of writing it, line by line, 

I stand in awe of the terrible curse, 

Like the trump of doom, in the closing 
verse ! 

God forgive me ! if ever I 
Take aught from the book of that 
Prophecy, 

Lest my part too should be taken away 
From the Book of Life on the Judgment 
Day. 

This is well written, though I say it ! 

I should not be afraid to display it, 

In open day, on the selfsame shelf 
With the writings of St. Theda herself, 
Or of Theodosius, who of old 
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold ! 
That goodly folio standing yonder, 
Without a single blot or blunder, 

Would not bear away the palm from 
mine, 

If we should compare them line for line. 

There, now, is an initial letter ! 

Saint Ulric himself never made a bet¬ 
ter ! 

Finished down to the leaf and the snail, 
Down to the eyes on the peacock’s 
tail ! 

And now, as I turn the volume over, 

And see what lies between cover and 
cover, 

What treasures of art these pages hold, 
All ablaze with crimson and gold, 

God forgive me ! I seem to feel 
A certain satisfaction steal 
Into my heart, and into my brain, 

As if my talent had not lain 
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. 
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, 
Here is a copy of thy Word, 

Written out with much toil and pain; 
Take it, O Lord, and let it be 
As something I have done for thee ! 

[He looks from the window.) 

How sweet the air is ! How fair the 
scene ! 

17 


I wish I had as lovely a green 
To paint my landscapes and my leaves ! 
How the swallows twitter under the 
eaves ! 

There, now, there is one in her nest; 

I can just catch a glimpse of her head 
and breast, 

And will sketch her thus, in her quiet 
nook, 

For the margin of my Gospel book. 

(He makes a sketch.) 

I can see no more. Through the valley 
yonder 

A shower is passing ; I hear the thunder 
Mutter its curses in the air, 

The Devil’s own and only prayer ! 

The dusty road is brown with rain, 

And, speeding on with might and main, 
Hitherward rides a gallant train. 

They do not parley, they cannot wait, 

But hurry in at the convent gate. 

What a fair lady ! and beside her 
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider ! 
Now she gives him her hand to alight ; 
They will beg a shelter for the night. 

I will go down to the corridor, 

And try to see that face once more ; 

It will do for the face of some beautiful 
Saint, 

Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. 
(Goes out.) 

The Cloisters. The Abbot Ernestus 
pacing to and fro. 

Abbot. Slowly, slowly up the wall 
Steals the sunshine, steals the shade ; 
Evening damps begin to fall, 

Evening shadows are displayed. 

Round me, o’er me, everywhere, 

All the sky is grand with clouds, 

And athwart the evening air 
Wheel the swallows home in crowds. 
Shafts of sunshine from the west 
Paint the dusky windows red ; 

Darker shadows, deeper rest, 

Underneath and overhead. 

Darker, darker, and more wan, 

In my breast the shadows fall; 

Upward steals the life of man, 

As the sunshine from the wall. 

From the wall into the sky, 








the 


GOLDEN LEGEND 


From the roof along the spire ; 

Ah, the souls of those that die 
Are but sunbeams lifted higher. 

[Enter Prince Henry.) 

Prince Henry. Christ is arisen ! 

Abbot. Amen ! he is arisen ! 

His peace be with you ! 

Prince Henry. Here it reigns forever ! 
The peace of God, that passeth under¬ 
standing, 


Prince Henry. How fares it with the 
holy monks of Hirschau ? 

Are all things well with them ? 

Abbot. All things are well. 

Prince Henry. A noble convent ! I 
have known it long 

By the report of travellers. I now see 

Their commendations lag behind the 
truth. 

You lie here in the valley of the Nagold 

As in a nest : and the still river, gliding 


Reigns in these cloisters and these 
corridors. 

Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent ? 

Abbot. I am. 

Prince Henry. And I Prince Henry 
of Hoheneck, 

Who crave your hospitality to-night. 

Abbot. You are thrice welcome to our 
humble walls. 

You do us honor; and we shall requite it, 

I fear, but poorly, entertaining you 

With Paschal eggs, and our poor con¬ 
vent wine, 

The remnants of our Easter holidays. 


Along its bed, is like an admonition 

How all things pass. Your lands are 
rich and ample, 

And your revenues large. God’s bene¬ 
diction 

Rests on your convent. 

Abbot. By our charities 

We strive to merit it. Our Lord and 
Master, 

When he departed, left us in his will, 

As our best legacy on earth, the 
poor ! 

These we have always with us ; had we 
not, 












































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


259 


Our hearts would grow as hard as are 
these stones. 

Prince Henry. If I remember right, 
the Counts of Calva 
Founded your convent. 

Abbot. Even as you say. 

Prince Henry. And, if I err not, it is 
very old. 

Abbot. Within these cloisters lie al¬ 
ready buried 

Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the 
flags 

On which we stand, the Abbot William 
lies, 

Of blessed memory. 

Prince Henry. And whose tomb is 
that, 

Which bears the brass escutcheon ? 

A bbot. A benefactor’s, 

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood 
Godfather to our bells. 

Prince Henry. Your monks are 
learned 

And holy men, I trust. 

Abbot. There are among them 

Learned and holy men. Yet in this age 
We need another Hildebrand, to shake 
And purify us like a mighty wind. 

The world is wicked, and sometimes I 
wonder 

God does not lose his patience with it 
wholly, 

And shatter it like glass ! Even here, at 
times, 

Within these walls, where all should be 
at peace, 

I have my trials. Time has laid his 
hand 

Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, 

But as a harper lays his open palm 
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. 
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips 
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness 
And weariness of life, that makes me 
ready 

To say to the dead Abbots under us, 

“ Make room for me ! ” Only I see the 
dusk 

Of evening twilight coming, and have not 
Completed half my task ; and so at times 
The thought of my shortcomings in this 
life 

Falls like a shadow on the life to come. 


Prince Henry. We must all die, and 
not the old alone ; 

The young have no exemption from that 
doom. 

Abbot. Ah, yes ! the young may die, 
but the old must! 

That is the difference. 

Prince He7iry. I have heard much 
laud 

Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium 
Is famous among all ; your manuscripts 
Praised for their beauty and their ex¬ 
cellence. 

Abbot. That is indeed our boast. If 
you desire it, 

You shall behold these treasures. And 
meanwhile 

Shall the Refectorarius bestow 

Your horses and attendants for the night. 

{Theygo in. The Vesper-bell rings.) 

The Chapel. Vespers; after which the 
monks retire, a chorister leading an ola 
monk who is blind. 

Prince Henry. They are all gone, 
save one who lingers, 

Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. 

As if his heart could find no rest, 

At times he beats his heaving breast 
With clenched and convulsive fingers, 
Then lifts them trembling in the air. 

A chorister, with golden hair, 

Guides hitherward his heavy pace. 

Can it be so ? Or does my sight 
Deceive me in the uncertain light ? 

Ah no ! I recognize that face, 

Though Time has touched it in his flight, 
And changed the auburn hair to white. 

It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, 

The deadliest foe of all our race, 

And hateful unto me and mine ! 

The Blind Monk. Who is it that doth 
stand so near 

His whispered words I almost hear ? 
Prince Henry. I am Prince Henry of 
Hoheneck. 

And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine ! 

I know you, and I see the scar, 

The brand upon your forehead, shine 
And redden like a baleful star ! 

The Blind Monk. Count Hugo once, 
but now the wreck 











26 o 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Of what I was. O Hoheneck ! 

The passionate will, the pride, the wrath 
That bore me headlong on my path, 
Stumbled and staggered into fear, 

And failed me in my mad career, 

As a tired steed some evil-doer, 

Alone upon a desolate moor, 

Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, 

And hearing loud and close behind 
The o’ertaking steps of his pursuer. 

Then suddenly from the dark there came 
A voice that called me by my name, 

And said to me, “ Kneel down and 
pray ! ” 

And so my terror passed away, 

Passed utterly away forever. 

Contrition, penitence, remorse, 

Came on me, with o’erwhelming force ; 

A hope, a longing, an endeavor, 

By days of penance and nights of prayer, 
To frustrate and defeat despair ! 

Calm, deep, and still is now my heart, 


With tranquil waters overflowed ; 

A lake whose unseen fountains start^ 
Where once the hot volcano glowed. 

And you, O Prince of Hoheneck ! 

Have known me in that earlier time, 

A man of violence and crime, 

Whose passions brooked no curb nor 
check. 

Behold me now, in gentler mood, 

One of this holy brotherhood. 

Give me your hand ; here let me kneel; 
Make your reproaches sharp as steel; 
Spurn me, and smite me on each 
cheek ; 

No violence can harm the meek, 

There is no wound Christ cannot heal ! 
Yes ; lift your princely hand, and take 
Revenge, if’t is revenge you seek ; 

Then pardon me, for Jesus’ sake ! 

Prince Henry. Arise, Count Hugo! 
let there be 

No further strife nor enmity 
































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


261 


Between us twain; we both have erred ! 
Too rash in act, too wroth in word. 
From the beginning have we stood 
In fierce, defiant attitude, 

Each thoughtless of the other’s right, 
And each reliant on his might. 

But now our souls are more subdued ; 
The hand of God, and not in vain, 

Has touched us with the fire of pain. 

Let us kneel down, and side by side 
Pray, till our souls are purified, 

And pardon will not be denied ! 

(They kneel.) 


O ! quam sapidum in ore ! 

Dulce linguae vinculum ! 

Friar Cuthbert. I should think your 
tongue had broken its chain ! 

Friar Paul (sings). 

Felix venter quem intrabis ! 

Felix guttur quod rigabis ! 

Felix os quod tu lavabis ! 

Et beata labia ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Peace ! I say, peace ! 
Will you never cease ! 



The Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monks at 
midnight. Lucifer disguised as a 
Friar. 

Friar Paul (sings). 

Ave ! color vini clari, 

Dulcis potus, non amari, 

Tua nos inebriari 
Digneris potentia ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Not so much noise, 
my worthy freres, 

You ’ll disturb the Abbot at his prayers. 
Friar Paid (sings). 

O ! quam placens in colore ! 

O ! quam fragrans in odore ! 


You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you 
again ! 

Friar John. No danger ! to-night he 
will let us alone, 

As I happen to know he has guests ol 
his own. 

Friar Cuthbert. Who are they ? 

Friar John. A German Prince an«. 
his train, 

Who arrived here just before the rain. 

There is with him a damsel fair to 
see, 

As slender and graceful as a reed ! 

When she alighted from her steed, 

It seemed like a blossom blown from a 
tree. 









































262 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Friar Cuthbert. None of your pale- 
faced girls for me ! 

None of your damsels of high degree ! 
Friar John. Come, old fellow, drink 
down to your peg ! 

But do not drink any farther, I beg ! 

Friar Paul (sings). 

In the days of gold, 

The days of old, 

Crosier of wood 
And bishop of gold ! 

Friar Cuthbert. What an infernal 
racket and riot ! 

Can you not drink your wine in quiet ? 
Why fill the convent with such scan¬ 
dals, 

As if we were so many drunken Vandals ? 

Friar Paul (continues). 

Now we have changed 
That law so good, 

To crosier of gold 
And bishop of wood J 

Friar Cuthbert. Well, then, since you 
are in the mood 

To give your noisy humors vent, 

Sing and howl to your heart’s content ! 

Chorus of Monks. 

Funde vinum, funde ! 

Tanquam sint fluminis undae, 
Nec quaeras unde, 

Sed fundas semper abunde ! 

Friar John. What is the name of 
yonder friar, 

With an eye that glows like a coal of 
fire, 

And such a black mass of tangled 
hair ? 

Friar Paul. He who is sitting there, 
With a rollicking, 

Devil may care, 

Free-and-easy look and air, 

As if he were used to such feasting and 
frolicking ? 

Friar John. The same. 

Friar Paul. He’s a stranger. You 
had better ask his name, 

And where he is going, and whence he 
came. 


Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar ! 

Friar Paul. You must raise your 
voice a little higher, 

He does not seem to hear what you 
say. 

Now, try again! He is looking this 
way. 

Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar, 

We wish to inquire 

Whence you came, and where you are 
going, 

And anything else that is worth the 
knowing. 

So be so good as to open your head. 
Lucifer. I am a Frenchman born and 
bred, 

Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. 

My home 

Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, 

Of which, very like, you never have 
heard. 

Monks. Never a word ! 

Lricifer. You must know, then, it is in 
the diocese 

Called the Diocese of Vannes, 

In the province of Brittany. 

From the gray rocks of Morbihan 
It overlooks the angry sea ; 

The very sea-shore where, 

In his great despair, 

Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, 

Filling the night with woe, 

And wailing aloud to the merciless seas 
The name of his sweet Heloise ! 

Whilst overhead 

The convent windows gleamed as red 
As the fiery eyes of the monks within, 
Who with jovial din 

Gave themselves up to all kinds of 
sin ! 

Ha ! that is a convent! that is an ab¬ 
bey ! 

Over the doors, 

None of your death-heads carved in 
wood, 

None of your Saints looking pious and 
good, 

None of your Patriarchs old and shabby ! 
But the heads and tusks of boars, 

And the cells 

Hung all round with the fells 
Of the fallow-deer. 

And then what cheer ! 






THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 263., 


What jolly, fat friars, 

Sitting round the great, roaring fires, 
Roaring louder than they, 

With their strong wines, 

And their concubines, 

And never a bell, 

With its swagger and swell, 

Calling you up with a start of affright 
In the dead of night, 

To send you grumbling down dark stairs, 
To mumble your prayers. 

But the cheery crow 
Of cocks in the yard below, 

After daybreak, an hour or so, 

And the barking of deep - mouthed 
hounds, 

These are the sounds 

That, instead of bells, salute the ear. 

And then all day 
Up and away 

Through the forest, hunting the deer ! 

Ah, my friends ! I’m afraid that here 
You are a little too pious, a little too 
tame, 

And the more is the shame. 

’T is the greatest folly 
Not to be jolly ; 

That’s what I think ! 

Come, drink, drink, 

Drink, and die game ! 

Monks. And your Abbot What’s-his- 
name ? 

Lucifer. Abelard ! 

Monks. Did he drink hard ? 

Lucifer. O no ! Not he ! 

He was a dry old fellow, 

Without juice enough to get thoroughly 
mellow. 

There he stood, 

Lowering at us in sullen mood, 

As if he had come into Brittany 
Just to reform our brotherhood ! 

[A roar of laughter.) 

But you see 
It never would do ! 

For some of us knew a thing or two, 

In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys ! 
For instance, the great ado 
With old Fulbert’s niece, 

The young and lovely Heloise. 

Friar John. Stop there, if you please, 
Till we drink to the fair Heloise. 


All [drinking and shouting). Heloise ! 
Heloise ! 

(The Chapel-bell tolls.) 

Lucifer [starting). What is that bell 
for ? Are you such asses 
As to keep up the fashion of midnight 
masses ? 

Friar Cuthbert. It is only a poor, un¬ 
fortunate brother, 

Who is gifted with most miraculous 
powers 

Of getting up at all sorts of hours, 

And, by way of penance and Christian 
meekness, 

Of creeping silently out of his cell 
To take a pull at that hideous bell; 

So that all the monks who 'fire lying 

0 

awake 

May murmur some kind of prayer for his 
sake, 

And adapted to his peculiar weakness ! 

Friar John. From frailty and fall — 

All. Good Lord, deliver us all ! 

Friar Cuthbert. And before the bell 
for matins sounds, 

He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, 
Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, 

Merely to say it is time to arise. 

But enough of that. Go on, if you 
please, 

With your story about St. Gildas de 
Rhuys. 

Lucifer. Well, it finally came to pass 
That, half in fun and half in malice, 

One Sunday at Mass 

We put some poison into the chalice. 

But, either by accident or design, 

Peter Abelard kept away 
From the chapel that day, 

And a poor, young friar, who in his stead 
Drank the sacramental wine, 

Fell on the steps of the altar, dead ! 

But look ! do you see at the window there 
That face, with a look of grief and de¬ 
spair, 

That ghastly face, as of one in pain ? 

Monks. Who ? where ? 

Lucifer. As I spoke, it vanished away 
again. 

Friar Cuthbert. It is that nefarious 
Siebald the Refectorarius. 

That fellow is always playing the scout, 









264 THE GOLDEN LEGEND . 


Creeping and peeping and prowling 
about ; 

And then he regales 

The Abbot with scandalous tales. 

Lucifer. A spy in the convent ? One 
of the brothers 

Telling scandalous tales of the others ? 
Out upon him, the lazy loon ! 

I would put a stop to that pretty soon, 

In a way he should rue it. 

Monks. How shall we do it ? 

Lucifer. Do you, Brother Paul, 

Creep under the window, close to the 
wall, 

And open it suddenly when I call. 

Then seize the villain by the hair, 

And hold him there, 

And punish him soundly, once for all. 

Friar Cuthbert. As St. Dunstan of old, 
We are told, 

Once caught the Devil by the nose ! 
Lucifer. Ha ! ha ! that story is very 
clever, 

But has no foundation whatsoever. 

Quick ! for I see his face again 
Glaring in at the window-pane ; 

Now! now ! and do not spare your 
blows. 

(Friar Paul opens the ivindozo suddenly , 
and seizes Siebald. They beat him.) 

Friar Siebald. Help ! help ! are you 
going to slay me ? 

Friar Paid. That will teach you again 
to betray me ! 

Friar Siebald. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Friar Paid {shouting and beating). 

Rumpas bellorum lorum, 

Vim confer amorum 
Morum verorum rorum 
Tu plena polorum ! 

Lucifer. Who stands in the doorway 
yonder, 

Stretching out his trembling hand, 

[ust as Abelard used to stand, 

The flash of his keen, black eyes 
Forerunning the thunder ? 

The Monks {in confusion). The Ab¬ 
bot ! the Abbot! 

Friar Cidhbert. And what is the won¬ 
der ! 


He seems to have taken you by sur¬ 
prise. 

Friar Francis. Hide the great flagon 
From the eyes of the dragon ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Pull the brown hood 
over your face ! 

This will bring us into disgrace ! 

Abbot. What means this revel and 
carouse ? 

Is this a tavern and drinking-house ? 

Are you Christian monks, or heathen 
devils, 

To pollute this convent with your revels ? 
Were Peter Damian still upon earth, 

To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, 

He would write your names, with pen of 
gall, 

In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all ! 
Away, you drunkards ! to your cells, 

And pray till you hear the matin-bells ; 
You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother 
Paul! 

And as a penance mark each prayer 
With the scourge upon your shoulders 
bare ; 

Nothing atones for such a sin 
But the blood that follows the discipline. 
-And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with 
me 

Alone into the sacristy ; 

You, who should be a guide to your 
brothers, 

And are ten times worse than all the 
others, 

For you I’ve a draught that has long 
been brewing, 

You shall do a penance worth the doing ! 
Away to your prayers, then, one and all ! 

I wonder the very convent wall 
Does not crumble and crush you in its 
fall ! 

The neighboring Nunnery. The Abbess 
Irmingard sitting with Elsie in the 
moonlight. 

Irmingard. The night is silent, the 
wind is still, 

The moon is looking from yonder hill 
Down upon convent, and grove, and 
garden ; 

The clouds have passed away from her 
face, 

Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, 







THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


265 


Only the tender and quiet grace 

Of one, whose heart has been healed 
with pardon ! 

And such am I. My soul within 

Was dark with passion and soiled with 
sin. 

But now its wounds are healed again ; 

Gone are the anguish, the terror, and 
pain ; 


As thou sittest in the moonlight there, 

Its glory flooding thy golden hair, 

And the only darkness that which lies 
In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, 

I feel my soul drawn unto thee, 

Strangely, and strongly, and more and 
more, 

As to one I have known and loved be¬ 
fore ; 

For every soul is akin to me 



For across that desolate land of woe, 

O’er whose burning sands I was forced 
to go, 

A wind from heaven began to blow; 

And all my being trembled and shook, 

As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of 
the field, 

And I was healed, as the sick are healed, 
When fanned by the leaves of the Holy 
Book ! 


' That dwells in the land of mystery ! 

I am the Lady Irmingard, 

Born of a noble race and name ! 

Many a wandering Suabian bard, 

Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and 
hard, 

Has found through me the way to fame. 
Brief and bright were those days, and the 
night 

Which followed was full of a lurid light. 




















266 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Love, that of every woman’s heart 
Will have the whole, and not a part, 
That is to her, in Nature’s plan, 
More than ambition is to man, 


Of shadows o’er the landscape trail¬ 
ing, 

Yielding and borne I knew not where, 
But feeling resistance unavailing. 



Her light, her life, her very breath, 

With no alternative but death, 

Found me a maiden soft and young, 

Just from the convent’s cloistered school, 
And seated on my lowly stool, 

Attentive while the minstrels sung. 

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, 

Fairest, noblest, best of all, 

Was Walter of the Vogelweid; 

And, whatsoever may betide, 

Still I think of him with pride ! 

His song was of the summer-time, 

The very birds sang in his rhyme ; 

The sunshine, the delicious air, 

The fragrance of the flowers, were there; 
And I grew restless as I heard, 

Restless and buoyant as a bird, 

Down soft, aerial currents sailing, 

O’er blossomed orchards, and fields in 
bloom, 

And through the momentary gloom 


And thus, unnoticed and apart, 

And more by accident than choice, 

I listened to that single voice 
Until the chambers of my heart 
Were filled with it by night and day. 
One night, — it was a night in May, — 
Within the garden, unawares, 

Under the blossoms in the gloom, 

I heard it utter my own name 
With protestations and wild prayers ; 
And it rang through me, and became 
Like the archangel’s trump of doom, 
Which the soul hears, and must obey ; 
And mine arose as from a tomb. 

My former life now seemed to me 
Such as hereafter death may be, 

When in the great Eternity 
We shall awake and find it day. 

It was a dream, and would not stay ; 

A dream, that in a single night 
Faded and vanished out of sight. 


































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


My father’s anger followed fast 
This passion, as a freshening blast 
Seeks out and fans the fire, whose 
rage 

It may increase, but not assuage. 

And he exclaimed : “No wandering bard 
Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard ! 

For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck 
By messenger and letter sues.” 


That follows with such dread certainty; 

“ This, or the cloister and the veil ! ” 

No other words than these he said, 

But they were like a funeral wail; 

My life was ended, my heart was dead. 

That night from the castle-gate went 
down, 

With silent, slow, and stealthy pace. 


Gently, but firmly, I replied : 

“ Henry of Hoheneck I discard ! 

Never the hand of Irmingard 
Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride ! 
This said I, Walter, for thy sake ;. 
This said I, for I could not choose. 
After a pause, my father spake 
In that cold and deliberate tone 
Which turns the hearer into stone, 

And seems itself the act to be 


Two shadows, mounted on shadowy 
steeds, 

Taking the narrow path that leads 
Into the fore.st dense and brown. 

In the leafy darkness of the place, 

One could not distinguish form nor face, 
Only a bulk without a shape, 

A darker shadow in the shade ; 

One scarce could say it moved or stayed. 
Thus it was we made our escape ! 















THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


268 


A foaming brook, with many a bound, 
Followed us like a playful hound ; 

Then leaped before us, and in the hollow 
Paused, and waited for us to follow, 

And seemed impatient, and afraid 
That our tardy flight should be betrayed 
By the sound our horses’ hoof-beats 
made. 

And when we reached the plain below, 
We paused a moment and drew rein 
To look back at the castle again ; 

And we saw the windows all aglow 
With lights, that were passing to and fro ; 
Our hearts with terror ceased to beat ; 
The brook crept silent to our feet; 

We knew what most we feared to know. 
Then suddenly horns began to blow ; 

And we heard a shout, and a heavy 
tramp, 

And our horses snorted in the damp 
Night-air of the meadows green and wide, 
And in a moment, side by side, 

So close, they must have seemed but one, 
The shadows across the moonlight run, 
And another came, and swept behind, 
Like the shadow of clouds before the 
wind ! 

How I remember that breathless flight 
Across the moors, in the summer night ! 
How under Qur feet the long, white road 
Backward like a river flowed, 

Sweeping with it fences and hedges, 
Whilst farther away, and overhead, 

Paler than I, with fear and dread, 

The moon fled with us, as we fled 
Along the forest’s jagged edges ! 

All this I can remember well ; 

But of what afterwards befell 
I nothing further can recall 
Then a blind, desperate, headlong fall; 
The rest is a blank and darkness all. 
When I awoke out of this swoon, 

The sun was shining, not the moon, 
Making a cross upon the wall 
With the bars of my windows narrow 
and tall ; 

And I prayed to it, as I had been wont 
to pray, 

From early childhood, day by day, 

Each morning, as in bed I lay ! 

I was lying again in my own room ! 


And I thanked God, in my fever and 
pain, 

That those shadows on the midnight 
plain 

Were gone, and could not come again ! 

I struggled no longer with my doom ! 

This happened many years ago. 

I left my father’s home to come 
Like Catherine to her matrydom, 

For blindly I esteemed it so. 

And when I heard the convent door 
Behind me close, to ope no more, 

I felt it smite me like a blow. 

Through all my limbs a shudder ran, 

And on my bruised spirit fell 
The dampness of my narrow cell 
As night-air on a wounded man, 

Giving intolerable pain. 

But now a better life began. 

I felt the agony decrease 

By slow degrees, then wholly cease, 

Ending in perfect rest and peace ! 

It was not apathy, nor dulness, 

That weighed and pressed upon my brain, 
But the same passion I had given 
To earth before, now turned to heaven 
With all its overflowing fulness. 

Alas ! the world is full of peril ! 

The path that runs through the fairest 
meads, 

On the sunniest side of the valley, leads 
Into a region bleak and sterile ! 

Alike in the high-born and the lowly, 

The will is feeble, and passion strong. 

We cannot sever right from wrong ; 

Some falsehood mingles with all truth ; 
Nor is it strange the heart of youth 
Should waver and comprehend but 
slowly 

The things that are holy and unholy ! 

But in this sacred, calm retreat, 

We are all well and safely shielded* 

From winds that blow, and waves that 
beat, 

From the cold, and rain, and blighting 
heat, 

To which the strongest hearts have 
yielded. 

Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, 

For our celestial bridegroom yearning ; 







THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 269 

Our hearts are lamps forever burning, 

Among the wooden piles, the turbulent 

With a steady and unwavering flame, 

river 

Pointing upward, forever the same, 

Rushes, impetuous as the river of life, 

Steadily upward toward the heaven ! 

With dimpling eddies, ever green and 
bright, 

The moon is hidden behind a cloud ; 

Save where the shadow of this bridge 

A sudden darkness fills the room, 

falls on it. 

And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, 

Elsie. O yes ! I see it now ! 

Shine like jewels in a shroud. 

Prince Henry. The grim musician 

On the leaves is a sound of falling rain ; 

Leads all men through the mazes of that 

A bird, awakened in its nest, 

dance, 

Gives a faint twitter of unrest, 

To different sounds in different measures 

Then smooths its plumes and sleeps 

moving ; 

again. 

Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a 

No other sounds than these I hear; 

drum, 

The hour of midnight must be near. 

To tempt or terrify. 

Thou art o’erspent with the day’s fatigue 

Elsie. What is this picture ? 

Of riding many a dusty league ; 

Prince Henry. It is a young man 

Sink, then, gently to thy slumber ; 

singing to a nun, 

Me so many cares encumber, 

Who kneels at her devotions, but in 

So many ghosts, and forms of fright, 

kneeling 

Have started from their graves to-night, 

Turns round to look at him ; and Death, 

They have driven sleep from mine eyes 

meanwhile, 

away : 

Is putting out the candles on the altar ! 

I will go down to the chapel and pray. 

Elsie. Ah, what a pity ’t is that she 

• 

should listen 

Y. 

Unto such songs, when in her orisons 

She might have heard in heaven the 

A covered bridge at Lucerne. 

angels singing ! 

Prince Henry. God’s blessing on the 

Prince Henry. Here he has stolen a 

architects who build 

jester’s cap and bells, 

The bridges o’er swift rivers and abysses 

And dances with the Queen. 

Before impassable to human feet, 

Elsie. A foolish jest! 

No less than on the builders of cathe- 

Prince Henry. And here the heart of 

drals, 

the new-wedded wife, 

Whose massive walls are bridges thrown 

Coming from church with her beloved 

across 

lord, 

The dark and terrible abyss of Death. 

He startles with the rattle of his drum. 

Well has the name of Pontifex been 

Elsie. Ah, that is sad ! And yet 

given 

perhaps’t is best 

Unto the Church’s head, as the chief 

That she should die, with all the sun- 

builder 

shine on her, 

And architect of the invisible bridge 

And all the benedictions of the morning, 

That leads from earth to heaven. 

Before this affluence of golden light 

Elsie. How dark it grows ! 

Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, 

What are these paintings on the walls 

Then into darkness ! 

around us ? 

Prince Henry. Under it is written, 

Prince Henry. The Dance Macaber ! 

“Nothing but death shall separate thee 

Elsie. What ? 

and me ! ” 

Prince Henry. The Dance of Death ! 

Elsie. Ancl what is this, that follows 

All that go to and fro must look upon it, 

close upon it ? 

Mindful of what they shall be, while be- 

Prince Henry. Death, playing on a 

neath, 

dulcimer. Behind him, 









270 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


A poor old woman, with a rosary, 
Follows the sound, and seems to wish 
her feet 

Were swifter to o’ertake him. Under¬ 
neath, 

The inscription reads, “ Better is Death 
than Life.” 

Elsie. Better is Death than Life! 
Ah yes ! to thousands 
Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings 
That song of consolation, till the air 
Rings with it, and they cannot choose 
but follow 


That life, and all that speaks of life, is 
lovely, 

And death, and all that speaks of death, 
is hateful. 

Elsie. The grave itself is but a cov¬ 
ered bridge, 

Leading from light to light, through a 
brief darkness ! 

Prince Henry (emerging fro7n the 
bridge ). I breathe again more 
freely ! Ah, how pleasant 

To come once more into the light of 
day, 



Whither he leads. And not the old 
alone, 

But the young also hear it, and are still. 

Prince Henry. Yes, in their sadder 
moments. ’T is the sound 

Of their own hearts they hear, half full 
of tears, 

Which are like crystal cups, half filled 
with water, 

Responding to the pressure of a finger 

With music sweet and low and melan¬ 
choly. 

Let us go forward, and no longer stay 

In this great picture-gallery of Death ! 

I hate it! ay, the very thought of it! 

Elsie. Why is it hateful to you ? 

Prince Henry. For the reason 


Out of that shadow of death ! To hear 
again 

The hoof-beats of our horses on firm 
ground, 

And not upon those hollow planks, re¬ 
sounding 

With a sepulchral echo, like the clods 

On coffins in a churchyard ! Yonder lies 

The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, 
apparelled 

In light, and lingering, like a village 
maiden, 

Hid in the bosom of her native moun¬ 
tains, 

Then pouring all her life into another’s, 

Changing her name and being ! Over¬ 
head, 



















THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


271 



Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, 
Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines. 

(They pass on .) 

The Devil's Bridge. Prince Henry 
and Elsie crossing, with attendants. 

Gtiide. This bridge is called the 
Devil’s Bridge. 

With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, 

It leaps across the terrible chasm 
Yawning beneath us, black and deep, 

As if, in some convulsive spasm, 

The summits of the hills had cracked, 
And made a road for the cataract, 

That raves and rages down the steep ! 
Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 


Guide. Never any bridge but this 
Could stand across the wild abyss ; 

All the rest, of wood or stone, 

By the Devil’s hand were overthrown. 

He toppled crags from the precipice, 

And whatsoe’er was built by day 
In the night was swept away ; 

None could stand but this alone. 

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 
Guide. I showed you in the valley a 
boulder 

Marked with the imprint of his shoulder ; 
As he was bearing it up this way, 

A peasant, passing, cried, “ Herr Je ! ” 
And the Devil dropped it in his fright, 
And vanished suddenly out of sight ! 
Lucifer [under the bridge). Ha ! ha * 










































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Guide. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, 
For pilgrims on their way to Rome, 

Built this at last, with a single arch, 
Under which, on its endless march, 

Runs the river, white with foam, 

Like a thread through the eye of a nee¬ 
dle. 

And the Devil promised to let it stand, 
Under compact and condition 
That the first living thing which crossed 
Should be surrendered into his hand, 

And be beyond redemption lost. 

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 
perdition ! 


Guide. At length, the bridge being all 
completed, 

The Abbot, standing at its head, 

Threw across it a loaf of bread, 

Which a hungry dog sprang after, 

And the rocks re-echoed with the peals 
of laughter 

To see the Devil thus defeated ! 

[Theypass on.) 

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 
defeated ! 

For journeys and for crimes like this 
I let the bridge stand o’er the abyss ! 

Two c 


The St. Got hard Pass. 

Prince Henry. This is the highest point, 
ways the rivers 

Leap down to different seas, and as they roll 































THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


273 


Grow deep and still, and their majestic 

Bear thee across these chasms and 

presence 

precipices, 

Becomes a benefaction to the towns 

Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against 

They visit, wandering silently among 

a stone ! 

them, 

Elsie. Would I were borne unto my 

Like patriarchs old among their shining 

grave, as she was, 

tents. 

Upon angelic shoulders ! Even now 



t 


Elsie. How bleak and bare it is! 
Nothing but mosses 
Grow on these rocks. 

Prince Henry. Yet are they not for¬ 
gotten ; 

Beneficent Nature sends the mists to 
feed them. 

Elsie. See yonder little cloud, that, 
borne aloft 

So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away 
Over the snowy peaks ! It seems to me 
The body of St. Catherine, borne by 
angels ! 

Prince Henry. Thou art St. Cath¬ 
erine, and invisible angels 
18 


I seem uplifted by them, light as air ! 

What sound is that ? 

Prince Henry. The tumbling ava¬ 
lanches ! 

Elsie. How awful, yet how beautiful ! 

Prince Henry. These are 

The voices of the mountains ! Thus they 
ope 

Their snowy lips, and speak unto each 
other, 

In the primeval language, lost to man. 

Elsie. What land is this that spreads 
itself beneath us ? 

Prince Henry. Italy ! Italy ! 

Elsie. Land of the Madonna ! 










274 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


How beautiful it is ! It seems a garden 
Of Paradise ! 

Prince LLenry. Nay, of Gethsemane 
To thee and me, of passion and of 
prayer ! 

Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago 
I wandered as a youth among its bowers, 
And never from my heart has faded quite 
Its memory, that, like a summer sunset, 
Encircles with a ring of purple light 
All the horizon of my youth. 

Guide. O friends ! 

The days are short, the way before us 
long; 

We must not linger, if we think to reach 
The inn at Belinzona before vespers ! 

(They pass on.) 

At the foot of the Alps. A halt tender the 
trees at noon. 

Prince Henry. Here let us pause a 
moment in the trembling 
Shadow and sunshine of the roadside 
trees, 

And, our tired horses in a group as¬ 
sembling, 

Inhale long draughts of this delicious 
breeze. 

Our fleeter steeds have distanced our 
attendants ; 

They lag behind us with a slower pace ; 
We will await them under the green 
pendants' 

Of the great willows in this shady place. 
Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled 
haunches 

Sweat with this canter over hill and glade ! 
Stand still, and let these overhanging 
branches 

Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with 
shade! 

Elsie. What a delightful landscape 
spreads before us, 

Marked with a whitewashed cottage here 
and there ! 

And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o’er 
us, 

Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny 
air. 

Prince Henry. Hark! what sweet 
sounds are those, whose accents 
holy 


Fill the warm noon with music sad and 
sweet! 

Elsie. It is a band of pilgrims, mov¬ 
ing slowly 

On their long journey, with uncovered 
feet. 

Pilgrims (chanting the Hymn of St. 

Hildebert). 

Me receptet Sion ilia, 

Sion David, urbs tranquilla, 

Cujus faber auctor lucis, 

Cujus portae lignum crucis, 

Cujus claves lingua Petri, 

Cujus cives semper laeti, 

Cujus muri lapis vivus, 

Cujus custos Rex festivus ! 

Lucifer (as a Friar in the procession). 
Here am I, too, in the pious band, 
In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite 
dressed ! 

The soles of my feet are as hard and 
tanned 

As the conscience of old Pope Hilde¬ 
brand, 

The Holy Satan, who made the wives 
Of the bishops lead such shameful lives. 
All day long I beat my breast, 

And chant with a most particular zest 
The Latin hymns, which I understand 
Quite as well, I think, as the rest. 

And at night such lodging in barns and 
sheds, 

Such a hurly-burly in country inns, 

Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, 
Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins ! 
Of all the contrivances of the time 
For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, 
There is none so pleasing to me and 
mine 

As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine ! 

Prince LLenry. If from the outward 
man we judge the inner, 

And cleanliness is godliness, I fear 
A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, 
Must be that Carmelite now passing near 

Lticifer. There is my German Princ* 
again, 

Thus far on his journey to Salem, 

And the lovesick girl, whose heated brair 
Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; 

But it’s a long road that has no turn ! 








THE 


GOLDEN LEGEND 


Let them quietly hold their way, 

I have also a part in the play. 

But first I must act to my heart’s con¬ 
tent 

This mummery and this merriment, 

And drive this motley flock of sheep 
Into the fold, where drink and sleep 
The jolly old friars of Benevent. 

Of a truth, it often provokes me to 
laugh 

To see these beggars hobble along, 


Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, 

Chanting their wonderful piff and paff, 

And, to make up for not understanding 
the song, 

Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong ! 

Were it not for my magic garters and 
staff, 

And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, 

And the mischief I make in the idle 
throng, 

I should not continue the business long. 


Pilgrims [chanting). 


In hac urbe, lux solennis, 
Ver aeternum, pax perennis ; 
In hac odor implens caelos, 
In hac semper festum melos ! 


Prince Henry. Do you observe 
that monk among the train, 
Who pours from his great throat 
the roaring bass, 





























2 7 6 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 

As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, 

To see the image of the Virgin Mary, 

And this way turns his rubicund, round 

That moves its holy eyes, and soifietimes 

face ? 

speaks, 

Elsie. It is the same who, on the 

And lets the piteous tears run down its 

Strasburg square, 

cheeks, 

Preached to the people in the open air. 

To touch the hearts of the impenitent. 

Prince Henry.' And he has crossed 

Prince Henry. O, had I faith, as in 

o’er mountain, field, and fell, 

the days gone by, 

On that good steed, that seems to bear 

That knew no doubt, and feared no mys- 

him well, 

tery ! 

The hackney of the Friars of Orders 

Lticifer [at a distance). Ho, Cuthbert ! 

Gray, 

Friar Cuthbert! 

His own stout legs ! He, too, was in 

Friar Cuthbert. Farewell, Prince ! 

the play, 

I cannot stay to argue and convince. 

Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. 

Prince Henry. This is indeed the 

Good morrow, Friar ! 

blessed Mary’s land, 

Friar Cuthbert. Good morrow, noble 

Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer ! 

sir ! 

All hearts are touched and softened at 

Prince Henry. I speak in German, 

her name; 

for, unless I err, 

Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, 

You are a German. 

. The priest, the prince, the scholar, and 

Friar Cuthbert. I cannot gainsay you. 

the peasant, 

But by what instinct, or what secret sign, 

The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, 

Meeting me here, do you straightway 

Pay homage to her as one ever present ! 

divine 

And even as children, who have much 

That northward of the Alps my country 

offended 

lies ? 

A too indulgent father, in great shame, 

Prince Henry. Your accent, like St. 

Penitent, and yet not daring unattended 

Peter’s, would betray you, 

To go into his presence, at the gate 

Did not your yellow beard and your blue 

Speak with their sister, and confiding 

eyes. 

wait 

Moreover, we have seen your face before, 

Till she goes in before and intercedes ; 

And heard you preach at the Cathedral 

So men, repenting of their evil deeds, 

door 

And yet not venturing rashly to draw 

On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg 

near 

square. 

With their requests an angry father’s ear, 

We were among the crowd that gathered 

Offer to her their prayers and their con- 

there, 

fession, 

And saw you play the Rabbi with great 

And she for them in heaven makes inter- 

skill, 

cession. 

As if, by leaning o’er so many years 

And if our Faith had given us nothing 

To walk with little children, your own 

more 

will 

Than this example of all womanhood, 

Had caught a childish attitude from 

So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, 

theirs, 

So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, 

A kind of stooping in its form and gait, 

This were enough to prove it higher and 

And could no longer stand erect and 

truer 

straight. 

Than all the creeds the world had known 

Whence come you now ? 

before. 

Friar Cuthbert. From the old mon¬ 
astery 

Pilgrims {chanting afar off). 

Of Hirschau, in the forest; being sent 

Urbs ccelestis, urbs beata, 

Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, 

Supra petram collocata, 







THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


2 77 


Urbs in portu satis tuto 
De longinquo te saluto, 

Te saluto, te suspiro, 

Te affecto, te require ! 

The Inn at Genoa. A terrace overlooking 
the sea. Night. 

I 

Prince Henry. It is the sea, it is the 
sea, 

In all its vague immensity, 

Fading and darkening in the distance ! 


And they depart, and come no more, 

Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. 

Above the darksome sea of death 
Looms the great life that is to be, 

A land of cloud and mystery, 

A dim mirage, with shapes of men 
Long dead, and passed beyond our ken. 
Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath 
Till the fair pageant vanisheth, 

Leaving us in perplexity, 



Silent, majestical, and slow, 

The white ships haunt it to and fro, 
With all their ghostly sails unfurled, 
As phantoms from another world 
Haunt the dim confines of existence ! 
But ah ! how few can comprehend 
Their signals, or to what good end 
From land to land they come and go ! 
Upon a sea more vast and dark 
The spirits of the dead embark, 

All voyaging to unknown coasts. 

We wave our farewells from the shore, 


And doubtful whether it has been 
A vision of the world unseen, 

Or a bright image of our own 
Against the sky in vapors thrown. 

Lucifer [singing from the sea). Thou 
didst not make it, thou canst not 
mend it, 

But thou hast the power to end it! 

The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, 

Deep it lies at thy very feet; 

There is no confessor like unto Death ! 
Thou canst not see him, but he is near ; 













278 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Thou needest not whisper, above thy 
breath, 

And he will hear ; 

He will answer the questions, 

The vague surmises and suggestions, 

That fill thy soul with doubt and fear ! 
Prince LLenry. The fisherman, who 
lies afloat, 

With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, 

Is singing softly to the Night! 

But do I comprehend aright 
The meaning of the words he sung 
So sweetly in his native tongue ? 

Ah yes ! the sea is still and deep. 

All things within its bosom sleep ! 

A single step, and all is o’er; 

A plunge, a bubble, and no more ; 

And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free 
From martyrdom and agony. 

Elsie [coining from her chamber upon 
the terrace ). The night is calm 

and cloudless, 

And still as still can be, 

And the stars come forth to listen 
To the music of the sea. 

They gather, and gather, and gather, 

Until they crowd the sky, 

And listen, in breathless silence, 

To the solemn litany. 

It begins in rocky caverns, 

As a voice that chants alone 
To the pedals of the organ 
In monotonous undertone ; 

And anon from shelving beaches, 

And shallow sands beyond, 

In snow-white robes uprising 
The ghostly choirs respond. 

And sadly and unceasing 
The mournful voice sings on, 

And the snow-white choirs still answer 
Christe eleison ! 

Prince Henry. Angel of God! thy 
finer sense perceives 
Celestial and perpetual harmonies ! 

Thy purer soul, that trembles and be¬ 
lieves, 

Hears the archangel’s trumpet in the 
breeze, 

And where the forest rolls, or ocean 
heaves, 

Cecilia’s organ sounding in the seas, 

And tongues of prophets speaking in the 
leaves. 


But I hear discord only and despair, 

And whispers as of demons in the air ! 

At sea. 

LI Padrone. The wind upon our 
quarter lies, 

And on before the freshening gale, 

That fills the snow-white lateen sail, 
Swiftly our light felucca flies. 

Around, the billows burst and foam; 
They lift her o’er the sunken rock, 

They beat her sides with many a shock, 
And then upon their flowing dome 
They poise her, like a weathercock ! 
Between us and the western skies 
The hills of Corsica arise ; 

Eastward, in yonder long, blue line, 

The summits of the Apennine, 

And southward, and still far away, 
Salerno, on its sunny bay. 

You cannot see it, where it lies. 

Prince Henry. Ah, would that never 
more mine eyes 

Might see its towers by night or day ! 

Elsie. Behind us, dark and awfully, 
There comes a cloud out of the sea, 

That bears the form of a hunted deer, 
With hide of brown, and hoofs of black, 
And antlers laid upon its back, 

And fleeing fast and wild with fear, 

As if the hounds were on its track ! 
Prince Henry. Lo ! while we gaze, it 
breaks and falls 

In shapeless masses, like the walls 
Of a burnt city. Broad and red 
The fires of the descending sun 
Glare through the windows, and o’er- 
head, 

Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, 

Long shafts of silvery light arise, 

Like rafters that support the skies ! 

Elsie. See ! from its summit the lurid 
levin 

Flashes downward without warning, 

As Lucifer, son of the morning, 

Fell from the battlements of heaven ! 

LI Padrone. I must entreat you, 
friends, below ! 

The angry storm begins to blow, 

For the weather changes with the moon. 
All this morning, until noon, 

We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws 
Struck the sea with their cat’s-paws. 












THE GOLDEN LEGEND . 


279 



Only a little hour ago 
I was whistling to Saint Antonio 
For a capful of wind to fill our sail, 

And instead of a breeze he has sent a 
gale. 

Last night I saw Saint Elmo’s stars, 

With their glimmering lanterns, all at 
play 


On the tops of the masts and the tips of 
the spars, 

And I knew we should have foul weather 
to-day. 

Cheerly, my hearties ! yo heave ho ! 

Brail up the mainsail, and let her 
g° 

As the winds will and Saint Antonio ! 












280 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Do you see that Livornese felucca, 

That vessel to the windward yonder, 
Running with her gunwale under ? 

I was looking when the wind o’ertook 
her. 

She had all sail set, and the only wonder 
Is, that at once the strength of the blast 
Did not carry away her mast. 

She is a galley of the Gran Duca, 

That, through the fear of the Algerines, 
Convoys those lazy brigantines, 

Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. 


And there is no danger of bank or 
breaker. 

With the breeze behind us, on we go ; 
Not too much, good Saint Antonio ! 

VI. 

The School of Salerno. A travelling 
Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate 
of the College. 

Scholastic. There, that is my gaunt¬ 
let, my banner, my shield, 



Now all is ready, high and low ; 

Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio ! 

Ha ! that is the first dash of the rain, 

With a sprinkle of spray above the 
rails, 

Just enough to moisten our sails, 

And make them ready for the strain. 

See how she leaps, as the blasts o’ertake 
her, • 

And speeds away with a bone in her 
mouth ! 

Now keep her head toward the south, 


Hung up as a challenge to all the field ! 

One hundred and twenty-five proposi¬ 
tions, 

Which I will maintain with the sword of 
the tongue 

Against all disputants, old and young. 

Let us see if doctors or dialecticians 

Will dare to dispute my definitions, 

Or attack any one of my learned theses. 

Here stand I; the end shall be as God 
pleases. 

I think I have proved, by profound 
researches, 




































T.HE GOLDEN LEGEND. 281 


The error of all those doctrines so 
vicious 

Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, 

That are making such terrible work in 
the churches, 

By Michael the Stammerer sent from the 
East, 

And done into Latin by that Scottish 
beast, 

Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to 
maintain, 

In the face of the truth, the error in¬ 
fernal, 

That the universe is and must be eter¬ 
nal ; 

At first laying down, as a fact funda¬ 
mental, 

That nothing with God can be acci¬ 
dental ; 

Then asserting that God before the 
creation 

Could not have existed, because it is 
plain 

That, had he existed, he would have 
created ; 

Which is begging the question that 
should be debated, 

And moveth me less to anger than 
laughter. 

All nature, he holds, is a respiration 

Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, 
hereafter 

Will inhale it into his bosom again, 

So that nothing but God alone will 
remain. 

And therein he contradicteth himself; 

For he opens the whole discussion by 
stating, 

That God can only exist in creating. 

That question I think I have laid on the 
shelf! 

{He goes out. Two Doctors come in dis¬ 
puting , and followed by pupils.) 

Doctor Serafino. I, with the Doctor 
Seraphic, maintain, 

That a word which is only conceived in 
the brain 

Is a type of eternal Generation ; 

The spoken word is the Incarnation. 

Doctor Cherubino What do I care for 
the Doctor Seraphic, 

With all his wordy chaffer and traffic ? 


Doctor Serafino. You make but a 
paltry show of resistance ; 
Universals have no real existence ! 

Doctor Cherubino. Your words are but 
idle and empty chatter ; 

Ideas are eternally joined to matter ! 

Doctor Serafino. May the Lord have 
mercy on your position, 

You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs ! 

Doctor Cherubino. May he send your 
soul to eternal perdition, 

For your Treatise on the Irregulai 
Verbs ! 

(They rush out fighting. Two Scholars 
come in.) 

First Scholar. Monte Cassino, then, is 
your College. 

What think you of ours here at Salem ? 

Second Scholar. To tell the truth, I 
arrived so lately, 

I hardly yet have had time to discern. 

So much, at least, I am bound to ac¬ 
knowledge : 

The air seems healthy, the buildings 
stately, 

And on the whole I like it greatly. 

First Scholar. Yes, the air is sweet; 
the Calabrian hills 
Send us down puffs of mountain air; 

And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills 
With its coolness cloister and court and 
square. 

Then at every season of the year 
There are crowds of guests and travellers 
here; 

Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and 
traders 

From the Levant, with figs and wine, 

And bands of wounded and sick Cru¬ 
saders, 

Coming back from Palestine. 

Second Scholar. And what are the 
studies you pursue ? 

What is the course you here go through ? 

First Scholar. The first three years of 
the college course 

Are given to Logic alone, as the source 
Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. 

Second Scholar. That seems rather 
strange, I must confess, 

In a Medical School; yet, nevertheless, 
You doubtless have reasons for that. 







282 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


First Scholar. O yes ! 

For none but a clever dialectician 
Can hope to become a great physician; 
That has been settled long ago. 

Logic makes an important part 
Of the mystery of the healing art; 

For without it how could you hope to 
show 

That nobody knows so much as you 
know ? 

After this there are five years more 
Devoted wholly to medicine, 

With lectures on chirurgical lore, 

And dissections of the bodies of swine, 
As likest the human form divine. 

Second Scholar. What are the books 
now most in vogue ? 

First Scholar. Quite an extensive 
catalogue; 

Mostly, however, books of our own; 

As Gariopontus’ Passionarius, 

And the writings of Matthew Platearius ; 
And a volume universally known 
As the Regimen of the School of Salem, 
For Robert of Normandy written in terse 
And very elegant Latin verse. 

Each of these writings has its turn. 

And when at length we have finished 
these, 

Then comes the struggle for degrees, 
With all the oldest and ablest critics ; 
The public thesis and disputation, 
Question, and answer, and explanation 
Of a passage out of Hippocrates, 

Or Aristotle’s Analytics. 

There the triumphant Magister stands ! 

A book is solemnly placed in his hands, 
On which he swears to follow the rule 
And ancient forms of the good old School; 
To report if any confectionarius 
Mingles his drugs with matters various, 
And to visit his patients twice a day, 

And once in the night, if they live in 
town, 

And if they are poor, to take no pay. 
Having faithfully promised these, 

His head is crowned with a laurel crown ; 
A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, 
The Magister Artium et Physices 
Goes forth from the school like a lord of 
the land. 

And now, as we have the whole moraine; 
before us, 


Let us go in, if you make no objection, 
And listen awhile to a learned prelection 
On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. 

(They go in. Enter Lucifer as a 
Doctor .) 

Lucifer. This is the great School of 
Salem ! 

A land of wrangling and of quarrels, 

Of brains that seethe, and hearts that 
burn, 

Where every emulous scholar hears, 

In every breath that comes to his ears, 
The rustling of another’s laurels ! 

The air of die place is called salubrious ; 
The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it 
An odor volcanic, that rather mends it, 
And the buildings have an aspect lugu¬ 
brious, 

That inspires a feeling of awe and terror 
Into the heart of the beholder, 

And befits such an ancient homestead of 
error, 

Where the old falsehoods moulder and 
smoulder, 

And yearly by many hundred hands 
Are carried away, in the zeal of youth, 
And sown like tares in the field of truth, 
To blossom and ripen in other lands. 

What have we here, affixed to the gate ? 
The challenge of some scholastic wight, 
Who wishes to hold a public debate 
On sundry questions wrong or right! 

Ah, now this is my great delight ! 

For I have often observed of late 
That such discussions end in a fight. 

Let us see what the learned wag main¬ 
tains 

With such a prodigal waste of brains. 
(Reads.) 

“ Whether angels in moving from place 
to place 

Pass through the intermediate space. 
Whether God himself is the author of 
evil, 

Or whether that is the work of the Devil. 
When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, 
And whether he now is chained in hell.” 

I think I can answer that question well ! 
So long as the boastful human mind 








THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 283 

Consents in such mills as this to grind, 

Prince Henry. Against all opposition, 

I sit very firmly upon my throne ! 

Against all prayers, entreaties, protesta- . 

Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, 

tions. 

To see men leaving the golden grain 

She will not be persuaded. 

Io gather in piles the pitiful chaff 

Lucifer. That is strange ! 

That old Peter Lombard thrashed with 

Have you thought well of it ? 

his brain, 

Elsie. I come not here 

10 have it caught up and tossed again 

To argue, but to die. Your business is 

On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Co- 

not 

logne ! 

To question, but to kill me. I am ready. 

I am impatient to be gone from here 

But my guests approach ! there is in the 

Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again 

air 

The spirit of tranquillity within me. 

A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful 

Prince Henry. Would I had not come 

Garden 

here ! Would I were dead, 

Of Paradise, in the days that were ! 

And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, 

An odor of innocence, and of prayer, 

And hadst not known me ! Why have I 

And of love, and faith that never fails, 

done this ? 

Such as the fresh young heart exhales 

Let me go back and die. 

Before it begins to wither and harden ! 

Elsie. It cannot be ; 

I cannot breathe such an atmosphere ! 

Not if these cold, flat stones on which we 

My soul is filled with a nameless fear, 

tread 

That, after all my trouble and pain, 

Were coulters heated white, and yonder 

After all my restless endeavor, 

gateway 

The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, 

Flamed like a furnace with a seven-fold 

The most ethereal, most divine, 

heat. 

Will escape from my hands for ever and 

I must fulfil my purpose. 

ever. 

Prince Henry. I forbid it ! 

But the other is already mine ! 

Not one step farther. For I only meant 

Let him live to corrupt his race, 

To put thus far thy courage to the proof. 

Breathing among them, with every breath, 

It is enough. I, too, have strength to 

Weakness, selfishness, and the base 

die, 

And pusillanimous fear of death. 

For thou hast taught me ! 

I know his nature, and I know 

Elsie. 0 my Prince ! remember 

That of all who in my ministry 

Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand. 

Wander the great earth to and fro, 

You do not look on life and death as I 

And on my errands come and go, 

do. 

The safest and subtlest are such as he. 

There are two angels, that attend un- 

[Enter Prince Henry cnid Elsie, with 
attendants.) 

seen 

Each one of us, and in great books record 

Our good and evil deeds. He who writes 

Prince Henry. Can you direct us to 

down 

Friar Angelo ? 

The good ones, after every action closes 

Lucifer. He stands before you. 

His volume, and ascends with it to God. 

Prince Henry. Then you know our 

The other keeps his dreadful day-book 

purpose. 

open 

I am Prince Henry of Iloheneck, and this 

Till sunset, that we may repent ; which 

The maiden that I spake of in my letters. 

doing, 

Lucifer. It is a very grave and solemn 

The record of the action fades away, 

business ! 

And leaves a line of white across the 

We must not be precipitate. Does she 

page. 

Without compulsion, of her own free will, 

Now if my act be good, as I believe, 

Consent to this ? 

It cannot be recalled. It is already 








284 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed ac¬ 
complished. 

The rest is yours. Why wait you ? I 
am ready. 

(To her attendants.) 

Weep not, my friends ! rather rejoice 
with me. 

I shall not feel the pain, but shall be 
gone, 

And you will have another friend in 
heaven. 

Then start not at the creaking of the door 
Through which I pass. I see what lies 
beyond it. 

{To Prince Henry.) 

And you, O Prince ! bear back my beni- 
son 

Unto my father’s house, and all within it. 
This morning in the church I prayed for 
them, 

After confession, after absolution, 

When my whole soul was white, I prayed 
for them. 

God will take care of them, they need me 
not. 

And in your life let my remembrance 
linger, 

As something not to trouble and disturb it, 
But to complete it, adding life to life. 

And if at times beside the evening fire 
You see my face among the other faces, 
Let it not be regarded as a ghost 
That haunts your house, but as a guest 
that loves you, 

Nay, even as one of your own family, 
Without whose presence there were 
something wanting. 

I have no more to say. Let us go in. 
Prince Henry. Friar Angelo ! I 
charge you on your life, 

Believe not what she says, for she is mad, 
And comes here not to die, but to be 
healed. 

Elsie. Alas ! Prince Henry ! 

Lucifer. Come with me ; this way. 

(Elsie goes in with Lucifer, who thrusts 
Prince Henry back and closes the 
door.) 

Prince Henry. Gone! and the light 
of all my life gone with her ! 


A sudden darkness falls upon the world ! 
O, what a vile and abject thing am I, 

That purchase length of days at such a 
cost! 

Not by her death alone, but by the death 
Of all that’s good and true and noble in 
me ! 

All manhood, excellence, and self-respect, 
All love, and faith, and hope, and heart 
are dead ! 

All my divine nobility of nature 
By this one act is forfeited forever. 

I am a Prince in nothing but in name ! 

{To the attendants.) 

Why did you let this horrible deed be 
done ? 

Why did you not lay hold on her, and 
keep her 

From self-destruction ? Angelo ! mur¬ 
derer ! 

{Struggles at the door, but cannot open it.) 

Elsie {within). Farewell, dear Prince ! 
farewell ! 

Prince Henry. Unbar the door ! 

Lucifer. It is too late ! 

Prince Henry. It shall not be too late ! 

{They burst the door open and rush in.) 

The Cottage in the Odenwald. Ursula 
spinning. Summer afternoon. A table 
spread. 

Ursula. I have marked it well, — it 
must be true, — 

Death never takes one alone, but two ! 
Whenever he enters in at a door, 

Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, 

He always leaves it upon the latch, 

And comes again ere the year is o’er. 
Never one of a household only ! 

Perhaps it is a mercy of God, 

Lest the dead there under the sod, 

In the land of strangers, should be lonely ! 
Ah me ! I think I am lonelier here ! 

It is hard to go, — but harder to stay ! 
Were it not for the children, I should 
pray 

That Death would take me within the 
year ! 

And Gottlieb ! — he is at work all day, 

1 In the sunny field, or the forest murk, 







THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


285 


But I know that his thoughts are far 
away, 

I know that his heart is not in his work ! 
And when he comes home to me at night 
He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, 

And I see the great tears in his eyes, 

And try to be cheerful for his sake. 

Only the children’s hearts are light. 


The garden gate ; — he is going past ! 
Can he be afraid of the bees ? 

No ; he is coming in at last ! 

He fills my heart with strange alarm ! 

(Enter a Forester .) 

Forester. Is this the tenant Gottlieb’s 
farm ? 



Mine is weary, and ready to break. 

God help us ! I hope we have done right; 
We thought we were acting for the best! 

(Looking through the open door.) 

Who is it coming under the trees ? 

A man, in the Prince’s livery dressed ! 

He looks about him with doubtful face, 
As if uncertain of the place. 

He stops at the beehives ; — now he sees 


Ursula. This is his farm, and I his 
wife. 

Pray sit. What may your business 

be ? 

Forester. News from the Prince ! 

Ursula. Of death or life ? 

Forester. You put your questions 
eagerly ! 

Ursula. Answer me, then ! How is 
the Prince ? 





























286 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Forester. I left him only two hours 
since 

Homeward returning down the river, 

As strong and well as if God, the Giver, 
Had given him back his youth again. 

Ursula [despairing). Then Elsie, my 
poor child, is dead ! 

Forester. That, my good woman, I 
have not said. 

Don’t cross the bridge till you come to it, 
Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. 

Ursula. Keep me no longer in this 
pain ! 

Forester. It is true your daughter is 
no more ; — 

That is, the peasant she was before. 

Ursula. Alas ! I am simple and lowly 
bred, 

I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. 

And it is not well that you of the court 
Should mock me thus, and make a sport 
Of a joyless mother whose child is dead, 
For you, too, were of mother born ! 

Forester. Your daughter lives, and the 
Prince is well! 

You will learn erelong how it all befell. 
Her heart for a moment never failed ; 

But when they reached Salerno’s gate, 
The Prince’s nobler self prevailed, 

And saved her for a nobler fate. 

And he was healed, in his despair, 

By the touch of St. Matthew’s sacred 
bones; 

Though I think the long ride in the open 
air, 

That pilgrimage over stocks and stones, 
In the miracle must come in for a share ! 

Ursula. Virgin ! who lovest the poor 
and lowly, 

If the loud cry of a mother’s heart 
Can ever ascend to where thou art, 

Into thy blessed hands and holy 
Receive my prayer of praise and thanks¬ 
giving ! 

Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear 

it 

Into the awful presence of God ; 

For thy feet with holiness are shod, 

And if thou bearest it he will hear it. 

Our child who was dead again is living ! 

Forester. I did not tell you she was 
dead ; 

If you thought so’t was no fault of mine ; 


At this very moment, while I speak, 

They are sailing homeward down the 
Rhine, 

In a splendid barge, with golden prow, 
And decked with banners white and red 
As the colors on your daughter’s cheek. 
They call her the Lady Alicia now ; 

For the Prince in Salerno made a vow 
That Elsie only would he wed. 

Ursida. Jesu Maria ! what a change ! 
All seems to me so weird and strange ! 
Forester. I saw her standing on the 
deck, 

Beneath an awning cool and shady ; 

Her cap of velvet could not hold 
The tresses of her hair of gold, 

That flowed and floated like the stream, 
And fell in masses down her neck. 

As fair and lovely did she seem 
As in a story or a dream 
Some beautiful and foreign lady. 

And the Prince looked so grand and proud, 
And waved his hand thus to the crowd 
That gazed and shouted from the shore, 
All down the river, long and loud. 

Ursida. We shall behold our child 
once more ; 

She is not dead ! She is not dead ! 

God, listening, must have overheard 
The prayers, that, without sound or word, 
Our hearts in secrecy have said ! 

O, bring me to her ; for mine eyes 
Are hungry to behold her face ; 

My very soul within me cries ; 

My very hands seem to caress her, 

To see her, gaze at her, and bless her ; 
Dear Elsie, child of God and grace ! 

{Goes oid toward the garden.) 

Forester. There goes the good woman 
out of her head ; 

And Gottlieb’s supper is waiting here ; 

A very capacious flagon of beer, 

And a very portentous loaf of bread. 

One would say his grief did not much 
oppress him. 

Here’s to the health of the Prince, God 
bless him ! 

{He drinks.) 

Ha ! it buzzes and stings like a hornet! 
And what a scene there, through the door ! 
The forest behind and the garden before, 







THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


287 


And midway an old man of threescore, 
With a wife and children that caress him. 
Let me try still further to cheer and 
adorn it 

With a merry, echoing blast of my cor¬ 
net ! 

(Goes out blmviJig his horn.) 

The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. 
Prince Henry and Elsie standing on 
the terrace at evening. The sound of 
bells heard from a distance. 


Elsie. Listen, beloved. 

Prince Henry. They are done ! 

Dear Elsie ! many years ago 
Those same soft bells at eventide 
Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, 

As, seated by Fastrada’s side 
At Ingelheim, in all his pride 
He heard their sound with secret pain. 
Elsie. Their voices only speak to 
me 

Of peace and deep tranquillity, 

And endless confidence in thee ! 



Prince Henry. We are alone. The 
wedding guests 

Ride down the hill, with plumes and 
cloaks, 

And the descending dark invests 

The Niederwald, and all the nests 

Among its hoar and haunted oaks. 

Elsie. What bells are those, that ring 
so slow, 

So mellow, musical, and low ? 

Prince Henry. They are the bells of 
Geisenheim, 

That with their melancholy chime 

Ring out the curfew of the sun. 


Prince Henry. Thou knowest the story 
of her ring, 

How, when the court went back to Aix, 
Fastrada died ; and how the king 
Sat watching by her night and day, 

Till into one of the blue lakes, 

Which water that delicious land, 

They cast the ring, drawn from her hand'; 
And the great monarch sat serene 
And sad beside the fated shore, 

Nor left the land forevermore. 

Elsie. That was true love. 

Prince Henry. For him the queen 
Ne’er did what thou hast done for me. 





















288 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Elsie. Wilt thou as fond and faithful 
be ? 

Wilt thou so love me after death ? 

Prince Henry. In life’s delight, in 
death’s dismay, 

In storm and sunshine, night and day, 

In health, in sickness, in decay, 

Here and hereafter, I am thine ! 

Thou hast Fastrada’s ring. Beneath 
The calm, blue waters of thine eyes 
Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, 


The evening air grows damp and chill ; 
Let us go in. 

Elsie. Ah, not so soon. 

See yonder fire ! It is the moon 
Slow rising o’er the eastern hill. 

It glimmers on the forest tips, 

And through the dewy foliage drips 
In little rivulets of light, 

And makes the heart in love with night. 
Prince Henry. Oft on this terrace, 
when the day 



And, undisturbed by this world’s breath, 
With magic light its jewels shine ! 

This golden ring, which thou hast worn 
Upon thy finger since the morn, 

Is but a symbol and a semblance, 

An outward fashion, a remembrance, 

Of what thou wearest within unseen, 

O my Fastrada, O my queen ! 

Behold ! the hill-tops all aglow 
With purple and with amethyst; 

While the whole valley deep below 
Is filled, and seems to overflow, 

With a fast-rising tide of mist. 


Was closing, have I stood and gazed, 
And seen the landscape fade away, 

And the white vapors rise and drown 
Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, 
While far above the hill-tops blazed. 

But then another hand than thine 
Was gently held and clasped in mine; 
Another head upon my breast 
Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. 

Why dost thou lift those tender eyes 
With so much sorrow and surprise ? 

A minstrel’s, not a maiden’s hand, 

Was that which in my own was pressed. 

























THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


289 


A manly form usurped thy place, 
A beautiful, but bearded face, 
That now is in the Holy Land, 
Yet in my memory from afar 


God sent his messenger of faith, 

And whispered in the maiden’s heart, 

“ Rise up, and look from where thou art, 
And scatter with unselfish hands 



Is shining on us like a star. 

But linger not. For while I speak, 

A sheeted spectre white and tall, 

The cold mist climbs the castle wall, 

And lays his hand upon thy cheek ! 

[Theygo in.) 

EPILOGUE. 

THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS ASCEND¬ 
ING. 

The Angel of Good Deeds {with closed 
book). God sent his messenger the 
rain, 

And said unto the mountain brook, 

“ Rise up, and from thy caverns look 
And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, 
From the cool hills into the heat 
Of the broad, arid plain.” 

19 


Thy freshness on the barren sands 
And solitudes of Death.” 

O beauty of holiness, 

Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness ! 

O power of meekness, 

Whose very gentleness and weakness 
Are like the yielding, but irresistible air ! 
Upon the pages 

Of the sealed volume that I bear, 

The deed divine 

Is written in characters of gold. 

That never shall grow old, 

But through all ages 
Burn and shine, 

With soft effulgence ! 

O God ! it is thy indulgence 
That fills the world with the bliss 
Of a good deed like this ! 

The Angel of Evil Deeds {with open 
book). Not yet, not yet 
Is the red sun wholly set, 














290 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Is hidden by wreaths of vapor ! 

Fainter and fainter the black lines 
Begin to quiver 

Along the whitening surface of the paper; 
Shade after shade 

The terrible words grow faint and fade, 
And in their place 
Runs a white space ! 

Down goes the sun ! 

But the soul of one, 

Who by repentance 

Has escaped the dreadful sentence, 

Shines bright below me as I look. 

It is the end ! 


Repeated and again repeated, 

Deep and loud 

As the reverberation 

Of cloud answering unto cloud, 

Swells and rolls away in the distance, 

As if the sheeted 
Lightning retreated, 

Baffled and thwarted by the wind’s 
resistance. 

It is Lucifer, 

The son of mystery ; 

And since God suffers him to be, 

He, too, is God’s minister, 

And labors for some good 
By us not understood ! 


But evermore recedes, 

While open still I bear 
The Book of Evil Deeds, 

To let the breathings of the upper air 
Visit its pages and erase 
The records from its face ! 

Fainter and fainter as I gaze 

In the broad blaze 

The glimmering landscape shines, 

And below me the black river 


With closed Book 
To God do I ascend. 


Lo ! over the mountain steeps 
A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps 
Beneath my feet; 

A blackness inwardly brightening 
With sullen heat, 

As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning, 
And a cry of lamentation, 
















THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

1855- 


Should you ask me, whence these 
stories ? 

Whence these legends and traditions, 
With the odors of the forest, 

With the dew and damp of meadows, 
With the curling smoke of wigwams, 
With the rushing of great rivers, 

With their frequent repetitions, 

And their wild reverberations, 

As of thunder in the mountains ? 

I should answer, I should tell you, 

“ From the forests and the prairies, 

From the great lakes of the Northland, 
From the land of the Ojibways, 

From the land of the Dacotahs, 

From the mountains, moors, and fen- 
lands, 

Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds among the reeds and rushes. 

I repeat them as I heard them 
From the lips of Nawadaha, 

The musician, the sweet singer.” 

Should you ask where Nawadaha 
Found these songs, so wild and way¬ 
ward, 

Found these legends and traditions, 

I should answer, I should tell you, 

“ In the bird’s-nests of the forest, 

In the lodges of the beaver, 

In the hoof-prints of the bison, 

In the eyry of the eagle ! 

“All the wild-fowl sang them to him, 
In the moorlands and the fen-lands, 

In the melancholy marshes ; 

Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, 
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, 
W awa, 

The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

And the grouse, the Mushkodasa ! ” 

If still further you should ask me, 
Saying, “ Who was Nawadaha ? 

Tell us of this Nawadaha,” 

I should answer your inquiries 
Straightway in such words as follow. 

“ In the Vale of Tawasentha, 

In the green and silent valley, 

By the pleasant water-courses, 


Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 

Round about the Indian village 
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, 
And beyond them stood the forest, 

Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, 
Green in Summer, white in Winter, 

Ever sighing, ever singing. 

“ And the pleasant water-courses, 

You could trace them through the valley, 
By the rushing in the Spring-time, 

By the alders in the Summer, 

By the white fog in the Autumn, 

By the black line in the Winter ; 

And beside them dwelt the singer, 

In the vale of Tawasentha, 

In the green and silent valley. 

“ There he sang of Hiawatha, 

Sang the Song of Hiawatha, 

Sang his wondrous birth and being, 

How he prayed and how he fasted, 

How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, 
That the tribes of men might prosper, 
That he might advance his people ! ” 

Ye who love the haunts of Nature, 
Love the sunshine of the meadow, 

Love the shadow of the forest, 

Love the wind among the branches, 

And the rain-shower and the snow¬ 
storm, 

And the rushing of great rivers 
Through their palisades of pine-trees, 
And the thunder in the mountains, 
Whose innumerable echoes 
Flap like eagles in their eyries ; — 

Listen to these wild traditions, 

To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye who love a nation’s legends, 

Love the ballads of a people, 

That like voices from afar off 
Call to us to pause and listen, 

Speak in tones so plain and childlike, 
Scarcely can the ear distinguish 
Whether they are sung or spoken ; — 
Listen to this Indian Legend, 

To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, 
Who have faith in God and Nature, 





292 


THE SONG OF HI A IVA THA. 



Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles 
Through the green lanes of the country, 
Where the tangled barberry-bushes 
Hang their tufts of crimson berries 
Over stone walls gray with mosses, 
Pause by some neglected graveyard, 

For a while to muse, and ponder 
On a half-effaced inscription, 

Written with little skill of song-craft, 
Homely phrases, but each letter 
Full of hope and yet of heart-break, 
hull of all the tender pathos 


He the Master of Life, descending, 

On the red crags of the quarry 
Stood erect, and called the nations, 
Called the tribes of men together. 

Prom his footprints flowed a river, 
Leaped into the light of morning, 

O er the precipice plunging downward 
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. 
And the Spirit, stooping earthward, 
With his finger on the meadow 
Traced a winding pathway for it, 
Saying to it, “ Run in this way ! ” 


Who believe, that in all ages 
Every human heart is human, 

That in even savage bosoms 

There are longings, yearnings, strivings 

For the good they comprehend not, 

That the feeble hands and helpless, 
Groping blindly in the darkness 
Touch God’s right hand in that darkness 
And are lifted up and strengthened ; — 
Listen to this simple story, 

To this Song of Hiawatha ! 


Of the Here and the Hereafter; — 
Stay and read this rude inscription, 
Read this Song of Hiawatha ! 


I. 

THE PEACE-PIPE. 

On the Mountains of the Prairie, 

On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 

\ 

















































THE PEACE-PIPE. 


2 93 


From the red stone of the quarry 
With his hand he broke a fragment, 
Moulded it into a pipe-head, 

Shaped and fashioned it with figures ; 


i Said : “ Behold it, the Pukwana ! 
By this signal from afar off, 
Bending like a wand of willow, 

! Waving like a hand that beckons, 



From the margin of the river 
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, 
With its dark green leaves upon it; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
With the bark of the red willow ; 
Breathed upon the neighboring forest, 
Made its great boughs chafe together, 
Till in flame they burst and kindled; 
And erect upon the mountains, 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 

Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, 
As a-signal to the nations. 

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, 
Through the tranquil air of morning, 
First a single line of darkness, 

Then a denser, bluer vapor, 

Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, 
Like the tree-tops of the forest, 

Ever rising, rising, rising, 

Till it touched the top of heaven, 

Till it broke against the heaven, 

And rolled outward all around it. 

From the Vale of Tawasentha, 
From the Valley of Wyoming, 

From the groves of Tuscaloosa, 

From the far-off Rocky Mountains, 
From the Northern lakes and rivers 
All the tribes beheld the signal, 

Saw the distant smoke ascending, 

The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. 

And the Prophets of the nations 


Gitche Manito, the mighty, 

Calls the tribes of men together, 

Calls the warriors to his council ! ” 

Down the rivers, o’er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations, 

Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 
Came the Choctaws and Camanches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, 
Came the Pawnees and Omahas, 

Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 

Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 

All the warriors drawn together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 

To the Mountains of the Prairie, . 

To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. 

And they stood there on the meadow, 
With their weapons and their war-gear, 
Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 

Wildly glaring at each other ; 

In their faces stern defiance, 

In their hearts the feuds of ages, 

The hereditary hatred, 

The ancestral thirst of vengeance. 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 

The creator of the nations, 

Looked upon them with compassion, 
With paternal love and pity ; 

Looked upon their wrath and wrangling 
But as quarrels among children, 

But as feuds and fights of children ! 














294 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Over them he stretched his right hand, 
To subdue their stubborn natures, 

To allay their thirst and fever, 

By the shadow of his right hand*; 

Spake to them with voice majestic 
As the sound of far-off waters, 

Falling into deep abysses, 

Warning, chiding, spake in this wise : — 
“ O my children ! my poor children ! 
Listen to the words of wisdom, 


Weary of your wars and bloodshed, 
Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 

Of your wranglings and dissensions ; 

All your strength is in your union, 

All your danger is in discord ; 

Therefore be at peace henceforward, 

And as brothers live together. 

“ I will send a Prophet to you, 

A Deliverer of the nations, 

Who shall guide you and shall teach you, 



Listen to the words of warning, 

From the lips of the Great Spirit, 

From the Master of Life, who made you ! 

“ I have given you lands to hunt in, 

I have given you streams to fish in, 

I have given you bear and bison, 

I have given you roe and reindeer, 

I have given you brant and beaver, 

Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, 
Filled the rivers full of fishes ; 

Why then are you not contented ? 

Why then will you hunt each other ? 

“ I am weary of your quarrels, 


Who shall toil and suffer with you. 

If you listen to his counsels, 

You will multiply and prosper ; 

If his warnings pass unheeded, 

You will fade away and perish ! 

“ Bathe now in the stream before you, 
Wash the war-paint from your faces, 
Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, 
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, 
Break the red stone from this quarry, 
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, 
Take the reeds that grow beside you, 
Deck them with your brightest feathers, 

























THE FOUR WINDS . 295 


Smoke the calumet together, 

And as brothers live henceforward ! ” 
Then upon the ground the warriors 
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer¬ 
skin, 

Threw their weapons and their war-gear, 
Leaped into the rushing river, 

Washed the war-paint from their faces. 
Clear above them flowed the water, 

Clear and limpid from the footprints 
Of the Master of Life descending:: 

Dark below them flowed the water, 

Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, 
As if blood were mingled with it ! 

From the river came the warriors, 
Clean and washed from all their war¬ 
paint ; 

On the banks their clubs they buried, 
Buried all their warlike weapons. 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 

The Great Spirit, the Creator, 

Smiled upon his helpless children ! 

And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarry, 
Smoothed and formed it into Peace- 
Pipes, 

Broke the long reeds by the river, 

Decked them with their brightest feath¬ 
ers, 

And departed each one homeward, 

While the Master of Life, ascending, 
Through the opening of cloud-curtains, 
Through the doorways of the heaven, 
Vanished from before their faces, 

In the smoke that rolled around him, 

The Pukwana of the Peace-pipe ! 

II. 

THE FOUR WINDS. 

“ Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! ” 

Cried the warriors, cried the old men, 
When he came in triumph homeward 
With the sacred Belt of Wamipum, 

From the regions of the North-Wind, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 

From the land of the White Rabbit. 

He had stolen the Belt of Wampum 
From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, 

From the Great Bear of the mountains, 
From the terror of the nations, 

As he lay asleep and cumbrous, 


On the summit of the mountains, 

Like a rock with mosses on it, 

Spotted brown and gray with mosses. 

Silently he stole upon him, 

Till the red nails of the monster 
Almost touched him, almost scared him, 
Till the hot breath of his nostrils 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, 

As he drew the Belt of Wampum 
Over the round ears, that heard not, 
Over the small eyes, that saw not, 

Over the long nose and nostrils, 

The black muffle of the nostrils, 

Out of which the heavy breathing 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. 

Then he swung aloft his war-club, 
Shouted loud and long his war-cry, 
Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of the forehead, 

Right between the eyes he smote him. 

With the heavy blow bewildered, 

Rose the Great Bear of the mountains ; 
But his knees beneath him trembled, 
And he whimpered like a woman, 

As he reeled and staggered forward, 

As he sat upon his haunches ; 

And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 

Standing fearlessly before him, 

Taunted him in loud derision, 

Spake disdainfully in this wise : — 

“ Hark you, Bear ! you are a coward, 
And no Brave, as you pretended ; 

Else you would not cry and whimper 
Like a miserable woman ! 

Bear ! you know our tribes are hostile, 
Long have been at war together ; 

Now you find that we are strongest, 

You go sneaking in the forest, 

You go hiding in the mountains ! 

Had you conquered me in battle, 

Not a groan would I have uttered ; 

But you, Bear ! sit here and whimper, 
And disgrace your tribe by crying, 

Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 

Like a cowardly old woman ! ” 

Then again he raised his war-club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead, 

Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 

Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 

He the Great Bear of the mountains, 

He the terror of the nations. 








296 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


“ Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! ” 

With a shout exclaimed the people, 

“ Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! 
Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind, 
And hereafter and forever 
Shall he hold supreme dominion 
Over all the winds of heaven. 

Call him no more Mudjekeewis, 

Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind ! ” 



Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 

For himself he kept the West-Wind, 
Gave the others to his children ; 

Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawondasee, 

And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, 
To the fierce Kabibonokka. 

Young and beautiful was Wabun ; 
He it was who brought the morning, 
He it was whose silver arrows 


Chased the dark o’er hill and valley; 

Fie it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crim¬ 
son, 

And whose voice awoke the village, 
Called the deer, and called the hunter. 

Lonely in the sky was Wabun ; 

Though the birds sang gayly to him, 
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow 



Filled the air with odors for him, 
Though the forests and the rivers 
Sang and shouted at his coming, 

Still his heart was sad within him, 

For he was alone in heaven. 

But one morning, gazing earthward, 
While the village still was sleeping, 
And the fog lay on the river, 

Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, 

He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone upon a meadow, 

































THE FOUR WINDS. 


Gathering water-flags and rushes 
By a river in the meadow. 

Every morning, gazing earthward, 

Still the first thing he beheld there 
Was her blue eyes looking at him, 

Two blue lakes among the rushes. 

And he loved the lonely maiden, 

Who thus waited for his coming ; 

For they both were solitary, 

She on earth and he in heaven. 

And he wooed her with caresses, 
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine, 
With his flattering words he wooed her, 
With his sighing and his singing, 
Gentlest whispers in the branches, 

Softest music, sweetest odors, 

Till he drew her to his bosom, 

Folded in his robes of crimson, 

Till into a star he changed her, 
Trembling still upon his bosom ; 

And forever in the heavens 
They are seen together walking, 

Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, 

Wabun and the Star of Morning. 

But the fierce Kabibonokka 
Had his dwelling among icebergs, 

In the everlasting snow-drifts, 

In the kingdom of Wabasso, 

In the land of the White Rabbit. 

He it was whose hand in Autumn 
Painted all the trees with scarlet, 

Stained the leaves with red and yellow ; 
He it was who sent the snow-flakes, 
Sifting, hissing through the forest, 

Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, 
Drove the loon and sea-gull south¬ 
ward 

Drove the cormorant and curlew 
To their nests of sedge and sea-tang 
In the realms of Shawondasee. 

Once the fierce Kabibonokka 
Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts, 
From his home among the icebergs, 

And his hair, with snow besprinkled, 
Streamed behind him like a river, 

Like a black and wintry river, 

As he howled and hurried southward, 
Over frozen lakes and moorlands. 

There among the reeds and rushes 
Found he Shingebis, the diver, 

Trailing strings of fish behind him, 

O’er the frozen fens and moorlands, 
Lingering still among the moorlands, 


Though his tribe had long departed 
To the land of Shawondasee. 

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 

“ Who is this that dares to brave me ? 
Dares to stay in my dominions, 

When the Wawa has departed, 

When the wild-goose has gone south¬ 
ward, 

And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Long ago departed southward ? 

I will go into his wigwam, 

I will put his smouldering fire out ! ” 

And at night Kabibonokka 
To the lodge came wild and wailing, 
Heaped the snow in drifts about it, 
Shouted down into the smoke-flue, 

Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, 
Flapped the curtain of the doorway. 
Shingebis, the diver, feared not, 
Shingebis, the diver, cared not ; 

Four great logs had he for fire-wood, 

One for each moon of the winter, 

And for food the fishes served him. 

By his blazing fire he sat there, 

Warm and merry, eating, laughing, 
Singing, “ O Kabibonokka, 

You are but my fellow-mortal ! ” 

Then Kabibonokka entered, 

And though Shingebis, the diver, 

Felt his presence by the coldness, 

Felt his icy breath upon him, 

Still he did not cease his singing, 

Still he did not leave his laughing, 

Only turned the log a little, 

Only made the fire burn brighter, 

Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. 

From Kabibonokka’s forehead, 

From his snow-besprinkled tresses, 

Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, 
Making dints upon the ashes, 

As along the eaves of lodges, 

As from drooping boughs of hemlock, 
Drips the melting snow in spring-time, 
Making hollows in the snow-drifts. 

Till at last he rose defeated, 

Could not bear the heat and laughter, 
Could not bear the merry singing, 

But rushed headlong through the door¬ 
way, 

Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts,. 
Stamped upon the lakes and rivers, 

Made the snow upon them harder, 

Made the ice upon them thicker, 









298 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Challenged Shingebis, the diver, 

To come forth and wrestle with him, 

To come forth and wrestle naked 
On the frozen fens and moorlands. 

Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
Wrestled all night with the North-Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka, 

Till his panting breath grew fainter, 

Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, 

Till he reeled and staggered backward, 
And retreated, baffled, beaten, 

To the kingdom of Wabasso, 

To the land of the White Rabbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter, 

Hearing Shingebis, the diver, 

Singing, “ O Kabibonokka, 

You are but my fellow-mortal ! ” 

Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 

Had his dwelling far to southward, 

In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, 

In the never-ending Summer. 

He it was who sent the wood-birds, 

Sent the robin, the Opechee, 

Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, 

Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, 
Sent the melons and tobacco, 

And the grapes in purple clusters. 

From his pipe the smoke ascending 
Filled the sky with haze and vapor, 

Filled the air with dreamy softness, 

Gave a twinkle to the water, 

Touched the rugged hills with smooth¬ 
ness, 

Brought the tender Indian Summer 
To the melancholy north-land, 

In the dreary Moon of. Snow-shoes. 

Listless, careless Shawondasee ! 

In his life he had one shadow, 

In his heart one sorrow had he. 

Once, as he was gazing northward, 

Far away upon a prairie 
He beheld a maiden standing, 

Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie ; 

Brightest green were all her garments, 
And her hair was like the sunshine. 

Day by day he gazed upon her, 

Day by day he sighed with passion, 

Day by day his heart within him 
Grew more hot with love and longing 
For the maid with yellow tresses. 


But he was too fat and lazy 
To bestir himself and woo her; 

Yes, too indolent and easy 
To pursue her and persuade her. 

So he only gazed upon her, 

Only sat and sighed with passion 
For the maiden of the prairie. 

Till one morning, looking northward, 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o’er with whiteness, 
Covered as with whitish snow-flakes. 
“Ah! my brother from the North-land, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 

From the land of the White Rabbit ! 
You have stolen the maiden from me, 
You have laid your hand upon her, 

You have wooed and won my maiden, 
With your stories of the North-land ! ” 
Thus the wretched Shawondasee 
Breathed into the air his sorrows ; 

And the South-Wind o’er the prairie 
Wandered warm with sighs of passion, 
With the sighs of Shawondasee, 

Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, 
Full of thistle-down the prairie, 

And the maid with hair like sunshine 
Vanished from his sight forever ; 
Nevermore did Shawondasee 
See the maid with yellow tresses ! 

Poor, deluded Shawondasee ! 

’T was no woman that you gazed at, 

’T was no maiden that you sighed for, 

’T was the prairie dandelion 

That through all the dreamy Summer 

You had gazed at with such longing, 

You had sighed for with such passion, 
And had puffed away forever, 

Blown into the air with sighing. 

Ah ! deluded Shawondasee ! 

Thus the Four Winds were divided; 
Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 
Had their stations in the heavens, 

At the corners of the heavens ; 

For himself the West-Wind only 
Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. 

III. 

Hiawatha’s childhood. 

Downward through the evening twi¬ 
light, 

In the days that are forgotten. 






HI A WA THA'S 


In the unremembered ages, 

From the full moon fell Nokomis, 

Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 

She a wife, but not a mother. 

She was sporting with her women, 
Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, 

When her rival, the rejected, 

Full of jealousy and hatred, 

Cut the leafy swing asunder, 

Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, 

And Nokomis fell affrighted 
Downward through the evening twilight, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow, 

On the prairie full of blossoms. 

“ See ! a star falls ! ” said the people ; 

“ From the sky a star is falling ! ” 

There among the ferns and mosses, 
There among the prairie lilies, 

On the Muskoday, the meadow, 

In the moonlight and the starlight, 

Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 

And she called her name Wenonah, 

As the first-born of her daughters. 

And the daughter of Nokomis 
Grew up like the prairie lilies, 

Grew a tall and slender maiden, 

AVith the beauty of the moonlight, 

With the beauty of the starlight. 

And Nokomis warned her often, 

Saying oft, and oft repeating, 

“ O, beware of Mudjekeewis, 

Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis ; 

Listen not to what he tells you ; 

Lie not down upon the meadow, 

Stoop not down among the lilies, 

Lest the West-Wind come and harm 
you ! ” 

But she heeded not the warning, 

Heeded not those words of wisdom, 

7 ♦ 

And the West-Wind came at evening, 
Walking lightly o’er the prairie, 
Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, 
Bending low the flowers and grasses, 
Found the beautiful Wenonah, 

Lying there among the lilies, 

AA’ooed her with his words of sweetness, 
Wooed her with his soft caresses, 

Till she bore a son in sorrow, 

Bore a son of love and sorrow. 

Thus was born my Hiawatha, 

Thus was born the child of wonder; 

But the daughter of Nokomis, 

Hiawatha’s gentle mother, 


CHILDHOOD. 299 


In her anguish died deserted 

By the West-Wind, false and faithless, 

By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter, long and loudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis ; 

“ O that I were dead ! ” she murmured, 

“ O that I were dead, as thou art ! 

No more work, and no more weeping, 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! ” 

By the shores of Gitche Gurnee, 

By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 

Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 

Dark behind it rose the forest, 

Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them ; 
Bright before it beat the water, 

Beat the clear and sunny water, 

Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. 

There the wrinkled, old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 

Rocked him in his linden cradle, 

Bedded soft in moss and rushes, 

Safely bound with reindeer sinews ; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 

“ Hush ! the Naked Bear will hea* 
thee ! ” 

Lulled him into slumber, singing, 

“ Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! 

Who is this, that lights the wigwam ? 
With his great eyes lights the wigwam ? 
Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! ” 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven ; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses ; 

Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, 
Warriors with their plumes and war- 
clubs, 

Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of Winter ; 

Showed the broad, white road in heaven, 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, 
Running straight across the heavens, 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha ; 

Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, 
Heard the lapping of the water, 

Sounds of music, words of wonder ; 

“ Minne-wawa ! ” said the pine-trees, 

“ Mudway-aushka ! ” said the water. 

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 






3 °° 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA . 


Flitting through the dusk of evening, 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes, 
And he sang the song of children, 
Sang the song Nokomis taught him : 
“ Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature, 
Light me with your little candle, 

Ere upon my bed I lay me, 

Ere in sleep I close my eyelids ! ” 


Whispered, “ What is that, Nokomis ? ” 
And the good Nokomis answered : 

“ ’T is the heaven of flowers you see 
there ; 

All the wild flowers of the forest, 

All the lilies of the prairie, 

When on earth they fade and perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above us.” 

When he heard the owls at midnight, 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 

“ What is that ? ” he cried in terror ; 



Saw the moon rise from the water 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 

Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 
Whispered “ What is that, Nokomis ? ” 
And the good Nokomis answered ; 

“ Once a warrior, very angry, 

Seized his grandmother, and threw her 
Up into the sky at midnight; 

Right against the moon he threw her ; 
’T is her body that you see there.” 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, 

In the eastern sky, the rainbow, 


“ What is that ? ” he said, “ Nokomis ? ” 
And the good Nokomis answered : 

“ That is but the owl and owlet, 

Talking in their native language, 

Talking, scolding at each other.” 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene’er he met them, 
Called them “ Hiawatha’s Chickens.” 









































HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEW/S. 301 


Of all beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 

Why the rabbit was so timid, 

Talked with them whene’er he met them, 
Called them “ Hiawatha’s Brothers.” 

Then Iagoo, the great boaster, 

He the marvellous story-teller, 

He the traveller and the talker, 

He the friend of old Nokomis, 

Made a bow for Hiawatha; 

From a branch of ash he made it, 

From an oak-bough made the arrows, 
Tipped with flint, and winged with feath¬ 
ers, 

And the cord he made of deer-skin. 

Then he said to Hiawatha : 

“ Go, my son, into the forest, 

Where the red deer herd together, 

Kill for us a famous roebuck, 

Kill for us a deer with antlers ! ” 

Forth into the forest straightway 
All alone walked Hiawatha 
Proudly, with his bow and arrows; 

And the birds sang round him, o’er him, 
“ Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! ” 

Sang the robin, the Opechee, 

Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 

“ Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! ” 

Up the oak-tree, close beside him, 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 

In and out among the branches, 

Coughed and chattered from the oak- 
tree, 

Laughed, and said between his laughing, 
“ Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! ” 

And the rabbit from his pathway 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 

Half in fear and half in frolic, 

Saying to the little hunter, 

“ Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! ” 

But he heeded not, nor heard them, 
For his thoughts were with the red deer; 
On their tracks his eyes were fastened, 
Leading downward to the river, 

To the ford across the river, 

And as one in slumber walked he. 

Hidden in the alder-bushes, 

There he waited till the deer came, 

Till he saw two antlers lifted, 


Saw two eyes look from the thicket, 

Saw two nostrils point to windward, 

And a deer came down the pathway, 
Flecked with leafy light and shadow. 

And his heart within him fluttered, 
Trembled like the leaves above him, 

Like the birch-leaf palpitated, 

As the deer came down the pathway. 

Then, upon one knee uprising, 
Hiawatha aimed an arrow ; 

Scarce a twig moved with his motion, 
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, 

But the wary roebuck started, 

Stamped with all his hoofs together, 
Listened with one foot uplifted, 

Leaped as if to meet the arrow ; 

Ah ! the singing, fatal arrow, 

Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him ! 

Dead he lay there in the forest, 

By the ford across the river; 

Beat his timid heart no longer, 

But the heart of Hiawatha 
Throbbed and shouted and exulted, 

As he bore the red deer homeward, 

And Iagoo and Nokomis 
Hailed his coming with applauses. 

From the red deer’s hide Nokomis 
Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 

From the red deer’s flesh Nokomis 
Made a banquet in his honor. 

All the village came and feasted, 

All the guests praised Hiawatha, 

Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-getaha ! 
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-gotaysee ! 

IV. 

HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 

Out of childhood into manhood 

Now had grown my Hiawatha, 

Skilled in all the craft of hunters, 

Learned in all the lore of old men, 

In all youthful sports and pastimes, 

In all manly arts and labors. 

Swift of foot was Hiawatha ; 

7 . / 

He could shoot an arrow from him, 

And run forward with such fleetness, 
That the arrow fell behind him ! 

Strong of arm was Hiawatha ; 

He could shoot ten arrows upward, 

Shoot them with such strength and swift¬ 
ness, 







302 . THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


That the tenth had left the bow-string 
Ere the first to earth had fallen ! 

Ele had mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Magic mittens made of deer-skin ; 
When upon his hands he wore them, 
He could smite the rocks asunder, 

He could grind them into powder. 


Of the beauty of his mother, 

Of the falsehood of his father ; 
And his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said to old Nokomis, 

“ I will go to Mudjekeewis, 

See how fares it with my father, 



He had moccasins enchanted, 

Magic moccasins of deer-skin ; 

When he bound them round his ankles 
When upon his feet he tied them, 

At each stride a mile he measured ! 

Much he questioned old Nokomis 
Of his father Mudjekeewis ; 

Learned from her the fatal secret 


At the doorways of the West-Wind, 

At the portals of the Sunset ! ” 

From his lodge went Hiawatha, 
Dressed for travel, armed for hunting ; 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings, 
Richly wrought with quills and wam¬ 
pum ; 

On his head his eagle-feathers, 







































HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 


3°3 


Round his waist his belt of wampum, 

In his hand his bow of ash-wood, 

Strung with sinews of the reindeer ; 

In his quiver oaken arrows, 

Tipped with jasper, winged with feath¬ 
ers ; 

With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 

With his moccasins enchanted. 

Warning said the old Nokomis, 

“ Go not'forth, O Hiawatha ! 

To the kingdom of the West-Wind, 

To the realms of Mudjekeewis, 

Lest he harm you with his magic, 

Lest he kill you with his cunning ! ” 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Heeded not her woman’s warning ; 

Forth he strode into the forest, 

At each stride* a mile he measured ; 
Lurid seemed the sky above him, 

Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, 
Hot and close the air around him, 

Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, 

As of burning woods and prairies, 

For his heart was hot within him, 

Like a living coal his heart was. 

So he journeyed westward, westward, 
Left the fleetest deer behind him, 

Left the antelope and bison ; 

Crossed the rushing Esconaba, 

Crossed the mighty Mississippi, 

Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, 
Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, 
Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, 
Came unto the Rocky Mountains, 

To the kingdom of the West-Wind, 
Where upon the gusty summits 
Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, 

Ruler of the winds of heaven. 

Filled with awe was Hiawatha 
At the aspect of his father. 

On the air about him wildly 
Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, 
Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, 
Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, 

Like the star with fiery tresses. 

Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis 
When he looked on Hiawatha, 

Saw his youth rise up before him 
In the face of Hiawatha, 

Saw the beauty of Wenonah 
From the grave rise up before him. 

“ Welcome ! ” said he, “ Hiawatha, 
To the kingdom of the West-Wind ! 


Long have I been waiting for you ! 

Youth is lovely, age is lonely, 

Youth is fiery, age is frosty ; 

You bring back the days departed, 

You bring back my youth of passion, 
And the beautiful Wenonah ! ” 

Many days they talked together, 
Questioned, listened, waited, answered ; 
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Boasted of his ancient prowess, 

Of his perilous adventures, 

His indomitable courage, 

His invulnerable body. 

Patiently sat Hiawatha, 

Listening to his father’s boasting; 

With a smile he sat and listened, 

Uttered neither threat nor menace, 
Neither word nor look betrayed him, 

But his heart was hot within him, 

Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said, “ O Mudjekeewis, 

Is there nothing that can harm you ? 
Nothing that you are afraid of? ” 

And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 

Grand and gracious in his boasting, 
Answered, saying, “ There is nothing, 
Nothing but the black rock yonder, 
Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek ! ” 

And he looked at Hiawatha 
With a wise look and benignant, 

With a countenance paternal, 

Looked with pride upon the beauty 
Of his tall and graceful figure, 

Saying, “ O my Hiawatha ! 

Is there anything can harm you ? 
Anything you are afraid of ? ” 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Paused awhile, as if uncertain, 

Held his peace, as if resolving, 

And then answered, “ There is nothing, 
Nothing but the bulrush yonder, 
Nothing but the great Apukwa ! ” 

And as Mudjekeewis, rising, 

Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, 
Hiawatha cried in terror, 

Cried in well-dissembled terror, 

“ Kago ! kago ! do not touch it! ” 

“ Ah, kaween ! ” said Mudjekeewis, 

“ No indeed, I will not touch it ! ” 

Then they talked of other matters ; 
First of Hiawatha’s brothers, 

First of Wabun, of the East-Wind, 

Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee, 













304 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Of the North, Kabibonokka ; 

Then of Hiawatha’s mother, 

Of the beautiful Wenonah, 

Of her birth upon the meadow, 

Of her death, as old Nokomis 
Had remembered and related. 

And he cried, “ O Mudjekeewis, 

It was you who killed Wenonah, 

Took her young life and her beauty, 
Broke the Lily of the Prairie, 

Trampled it beneath your footsteps ; 

You confess it! you confess it ! ” 

And the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Tossed upon the wind his tresses, 

Bowed his hoary head in anguish, 

With a silent nod assented. 

Then up started Hiawatha, 

And with threatening look and gesture 
Laid his hand upon the black rock, 

On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, 

With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 

Rent the jutting crag asunder, 

Smote and crushed it into fragments, 
Hurled them madly at his father, 

The remorseful Mudjekeewis, 

For his heart was hot within him, 

Like a living coal his heart was. 

But the ruler of the West-Wind 
Blew the fragments backward from him 
With the breathing of his nostrils, 

With the tempest of his anger, 

Blew them back at his assailant; 

Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, 
Dragged it with its roots and fibres 
From the margin of the meadow, 

From its ooze, the giant bulrush ; 

Long and loud laughed Hiawatha ! 

Then began the deadly conflict, 

Hand to hand among the mountains ; 
From his eyry screamed the eagle, 

The Keneu, the great war-eagle 
Sat upon the crags around them, 
Wheeling flapped his wings above them, 

Like a tall tree in the tempest 
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush ; 

And in masses huge and heavy 
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek ; 

Till the earth shook with the tumult 
And confusion of the battle, 

And the air was full of shoutings, 

And the thunder of the mountains, 
Starting, answered, “ Baim-wawa ! ” 

Back retreated Mudjekeewis, 


Rushing westward o’er the mountains, 
Stumbling westward down the moun¬ 
tains, 

Three whole days retreated fighting, 

Still pursued by Hiawatha 

To the doorways of the West-Wind, 

To the portals of the Sunset, 

To the earth’s remotest border, 

Where into the empty spaces 
Sinks the sun, as a flamingo 
Drops into her nest at nightfall, 

In the melancholy marshes. 

“ Hold ! ” at length cried Mudjekeewis, 
“ Hold, my son, my Hiawatha ! 

’T is impossible to kill me, 

For you cannot kill the immortal. 

I have put you to this trial, 

But to know and prove your courage ; 
Now receive the prize of valor ! 

“ Go back to your home and people, 
Live among them, toil among them, 
Cleanse the earth from all that harms it, 
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, 

Slay all monsters and magicians, 

All the Wendigoes, the giants, 

All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, 

As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, 

Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. 

“ And at last when Death draws near 
you, 

When-the awful eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon you in the darkness, 

I will share my kingdom with you, 

Ruler shall you be thenceforward 
Of the Northwest-Wind, Iveewaydin, 

Of the home-wind, the Iveewaydin.” 

Thus was fought that famous battle 
In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, 

In the days long since departed, 

In the kingdom of the West-Wind. 

Still the hunter sees its traces 
Scattered far o’er hill and valley; 

Sees the giant bulrush growing 
By the ponds and water-courses, 

Sees the masses of the Wawbeek 
Lying still in every valley. 

Homeward now went Hiawatha ; 
Pleasant was the landscape round him, 
Pleasant was the air above him, 

For the bitterness of anger 
Had departed wholly from him, 

From his brain the thought of vengeance, 
From his heart the burning fever. 






HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 305 


Only once his pace he slackened, 

Only once he paused or halted, 

Paused to purchase heads of arrows 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 

In the land of the Dacotahs, 

Where the Falls of Minnehaha 
Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, 
Laugh and leap into the valley. 

There the ancient Arrow-maker 
Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 

Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 
Smoothed and sharpened at the edges, 
Hard and polished, keen and costly. 

With him dwelt his dark-eyed daugh¬ 
ter, 

Wayward as the Minnehaha, 

With her moods of shade and sun¬ 
shine, 

Eyes that smiled and frowned alter¬ 
nate, 

Feet as rapid as the river, 

Tresses flowing like the water, 

And as musical a laughter ; 

And he named her from the river, 

From the waterfall he named her, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 

Was it then for heads of arrows, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 

Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 

That my Hiawatha halted 
In the land of the Dacotahs ? 

Was it not to see the maiden, 

See the face of Laughing Water 
Peeping from behind the curtain, 

Hear the rustling of her garments 
From behind the waving curtain, 

As one sees the Minnehaha 
Gleaming, glancing through the branches, 
As one heais the Laughing Water 
From behind its screen of branches ? 
Who shall say what thoughts and 
visions 

Fill the fiery brains of young men ? 

Who shall say what dreams of beauty 
Filled the heart of Hiawatha ? 

All he told to old Nokomis, 

When he reached the lodge at sun¬ 
set, 

Was the meeting with his father, 

Was his fight with Mudjekeewis; 

Not a word he said of arrows, 

Not a word of Laughing Water ! 

20 


V. 

HIAWATHA’S FASTING. 

You shall hear how Hiawatha 
Prayed and fasted in the forest, 

Not for greater skill in hunting, 

Not for greater craft in fishing, 

Not for triumphs in the battle, 

And renown among the warriors, 

But for profit of the people, 

For advantage of the nations. 

First he built a lodge for fasting, 

Built a wigwam in the forest, 

By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time. 

In the Moon of Leaves he built it, 

And, with dreams and visions many, 
Seven whole days and nights he fasted. 

On the first day of his fasting 
Through the leafy woods he wandered: 
Saw the deer start from the thicket, 

Saw the rabbit in his burrow, 

Fleard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, 
Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 

Rattling in his hoard of acorns, 

Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 

Building nests among the pine-trees, 

And in flocks the wild-goose, Wawa, 
Flying to the fen-lands northward, 
Whirring, wailing far above him. 

“ Master of Life ! ” he cried, desponding, 
“ Must our lives depend on these things ? ” 

On the next day of his fasting 
By the river’s brink he wandered, 
Through the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 

Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 

And the strawberry, Odahmin, 

And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 

And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, 
Trailing o’er the alder-branches, 

Filling all the air with fragrance ! 

“ Master of Life ! ” he cried, desponding, 
“ Must our lives depend on these things ? ” 

On the third day of his fasting 
By the lake he sat and pondered, 

By the still, transparent water ; 

Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping, 
Scattering drops like beads of wampum, 
Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 

Like a sunbeam in the water, 

Saw the pike, the Maskenozah, 






306 


THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 


And the herring, Okahahwis, 

And the Shavvgashee, the craw-fish ! 

“ Master of Life ! ” he cried, desponding, 
“ Must our lives depend on these things ? ” 
On the fourth day of his fasting 
In his lodge he lay exhausted ; 

From his couch of leaves and branches 
Gazing with half-open eyelids, 


Standing at the open doorway, 
Long he looked at Hiawatha, 

Looked with pity and compassion 
On his wasted form and features, 
And, in accents like the sighing 
Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, 
Said he, “ O my Hiawatha ! 

All your prayers are heard in heaven, 



Full of shadowy dreams and visions, 

On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 

Qn the gleaming of the water, 

On the splendor of the sunset. 

And he saw a youth approaching, 
Dressed in garments green and yellow 
Coming through the purple twilight, 
Through the splendor of the sunset ; 
Plumes of green bent o’er his forehead, 
And his hair was soft and golden. 


For you pray not like the others ; 

Not for greater skill in hunting, 

Not for greater craft in fishing, 

Not for triumph in the battle, 

Nor renown among the warriors, 

But for profit of the people, 

For advantage of the nations. 

“ From the Master of Life descending, 
I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 

Come to warn you and instruct you, 































HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 307 


How by struggle and by labor 

You shall gain what you have prayed for. 

Rise up from your bed of branches, 

Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me ! ” 

Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
Started from his bed of branches, 

From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin ; 

At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 

Felt new life and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 

So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 

And the more they strove and struggled, 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha ; 

Till the darkness fell around them, 

And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 

Gave a scream of pain and famine. 

“ ’T is enough ! ” then said Mondamin, 
Smiling upon Hiawatha, 

“ But to-morrow, when the sun sets, 

I will come again to try you.” 

And he vanished, and was seen not; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks, 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not, 

Only saw that he had vanished, 

Leaving him alone and fainting, 

With the misty lake below him, 

And the reeling stars above him. 

On the morrow and the next day, 
When the sun through heaven descend¬ 
ing, 

Like a red and burning cinder 
From the hearth of the Great Spirit, 

Fell into the western waters, 

Came Mondamin for the trial, 

For the strife with Hiawatha ; 

Came as silent as the dew comes, 

From the empty air appearing, 

Into empty air returning, 

Taking shape when earth it touches, 

But invisible to all men 
In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 

Till the darkness fell around them, 

Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

From her nest among the pine-trees, 


Uttered her loud cry of famine, 

And Mondamin paused to listen. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there, 

In his garments green and yellow ; 

To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, “ O Hiawatha ! 

Bravely have you wrestled with me, 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, 
And the Master of Life, who sees us, 

He will give to you the triumph ! ” 

Then he smiled, and said : “ To-mor¬ 
row 

Is the last day of your conflict, 

Is the last day of your fasting. 

You will conquer and o’ercome me ; 
Make a bed for me to lie in, 

Where the rain may fall upon me, 

Where the sun may come and warm me ; 
Strip these garments, green and yellow, 
Strip this nodding plumage from me, 

Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

“ Let no hand disturb my slumber, 

Let no weed nor worm molest me, 

Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 

Come to haunt me and molest me, 

Only come yourself to watch me, 

Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 

Till I leap into the sunshine.” 

And thus saying, he departed ; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, 

But he heard the Wawonaissa, 

Heard the whippoorwill complaining, 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam ; 

Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 

Heard the rivulet rippling near him, 
Talking to the darksome forest ; 

Heard the sighing of the branches, 

As they lifted and subsided 
At the passing of the night-wind, 

Heard them, as one hears in slumber 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers : 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 

On the seventh day of his fasting, 

Came with food for Hiawatha, 

Came imploring and bewailing, 

Lest his hunger should o’ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched not, 






3°8 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Only said to her, “ Nokomis, 

Wait until the sun is setting, 

Till the darkness falls around us, 

Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying from the desolate marshes, 

Tells us that the day is ended.” 

Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 

Fearing lest his strength should fail 
him, 

Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

He meanwhile sat weary waiting 
For the coming of Mondamin, 

Till the shadows, pointing eastward, 
Lengthened over field and forest, 

Till the sun dropped from the heaven, 
Floating on the waters westward, 

As a red leaf in the Autumn 
Falls and floats upon the water, 

Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold ! the young Mondamin, 
With his soft and shining tresses, 

With his garments green and yellow, 
With his long and glossy plumage, 

Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 

And as one in slumber walking, 

Pale and haggard, but undaunted, 

From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 

Round about him spun the landscape, 
Sky and forest reeled together, 

And his strong heart leaped within 
him, 

As the sturgeon leaps and struggles 
In a net to break its meshes. 

Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared thc^ red horizon, 

And a hundred suns seemed looking 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 

Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 

Panting with his wild exertion, 

Palpitating with the struggle ; 

And before him, breathless, lifeless, 

Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, 
Plumage torn, and garments tattered, 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and light above him ; 


And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moorlands, 

Gave a cry of lamentation, 

Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 

And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 

But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Mondamin ; 

Nor forgotten nor neglected 

Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 

Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, 

Where his scattered plumes and gar¬ 
ments 

Faded in the rain and sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiawatha 
Go to wait and watch beside it; 

Kept the dark mould soft above it, 

Kept it clean from weeds and insects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shout¬ 
ings, 

Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 

Then another and another, 

And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty. 

With its shining robes about it, 

And its long, soft, yellow tresses ; 

And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, “ It is Mondamin ! 

Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin ! ” 
Then he called to old Nokomis 
And Iagoo, the great boaster, 

Showed them where the maize was grow¬ 
ing, 

Told them of his wondrous vision, 

Of his wrestling and his triumph, 

Of this new gift to the nations, 

Which should be their food forever. 

And still later, when the Autumn 
Changed the long, green leaves to yel¬ 
low, 

And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yellow, 
Then the ripened ears he gathered, 
Stripped the withered husks from off 
them, 

As he once had stripped the wrestler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 

And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit. 













HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS. 


3 ° 9 


VI. 

HIAWATHA’S FRIENDS. 

Two good friends had Hiawatha, 

Singled out from all the others, 

Bound to him in closest union, 

And to whom he gave the right hand 
Of his heart, in joy or sorrow ; 

Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind. 

Straight between them ran the pathway, 
Never grew the grass upon it; 

Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, 
Story-tellers, mischief-makers, 

Found no eager ear to listen, 

Could not breed ill-will between them, 
For they kept each other’s counsel, 

Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

Most beloved by Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 

He the best of all musicians, 

He the sweetest of all singers. 

Beautiful and childlike was he, 

Brave as man is, soft as woman, 

Pliant as a wand of willow, 

Stately as a deer with antlers. 

When he sang, the village listened ; 

All the warriors gathered round him, 

All the women came to hear him ; 

Now he stirred their souls to passion, 
Now he melted them to pity. 

From the hollow reeds he fashioned 
Flutes so musical and mellow, 

That the brook, the Sebowisha, 

Ceased to murmur in the woodland, 

That the wood-birds ceased from singing, 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 

Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, 

And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 

Sat upright to look and listen. 

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Pausing, said, “ O Chibiabos, 

Teach my waves to flow in music, 

Softly as your words in singing ! ” 

Yes, the bluebird, the Qwaissa, 
Envious, said, “ O Chibiabos, 

Teach me tones as wild and wayward, 
Teach me songs as full of frenzy ! ” 

Yes, the robin, the Opechee, 

Joyous, said, “ O Chibiabos, 


Teach me tones as sweet and tender, 
Teach me songs as full of gladness ! ” 
And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing, said, “ O Chibiabos, 

Teach me tones as melancholy, 

, Teach me songs as full of sadness ! ” 
All the many sounds of nature 
Borrowed sweetness from his singing ; 
- All the hearts of men were softened 
By the pathos of his music •; 

For he sang of peace and freedom, 
Sang of beauty, love, and longing; 
Sang of death, and life undying 
In the Islands of the Blessed, 

In the kingdom of Ponemah, 

In the land of the Hereafter. 

Very dear to Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 

He the best of all musicians, 

He the sweetest of all singers ; 

For his gentleness he loved him, 

And the magic of his singing. 

Dear, too, unto Hiawatha 
Was the very strong man, Kwasind, 
He the strongest of all mortals, 

He the mightiest among many ; 

For his very strength he loved him, 
For his strength allied to goodness. 
Idle in his youth was Kwasind, 

Very listless, dull, and dreamy, 

Never played with other children, 
Never fished and never hunted, 

Not like other children was he ; 

But they saw that much he fasted, 
Much his Manito entreated, 

Much besought his Guardian Spirit. 

“ Lazy Kwasind ! ” said his mother, 
“ In my work you never help me ! 

In the Summer you are roaming 
Idly in the fields and forests ; 

In the Winter you are cowering 
O’er the firebrands in the wigwam ! 

In the coldest days of Winter 
I must break the ice for fishing ; 

With my nets you never help me ! 

At the door my nets are hanging, 
Dripping, freezing with the water ; 

Go and wring them, Yenadizze ! 

Go and dry them in the sunshine! ” 
Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind 
Rose, but made no angry answer; 
From the lodge went forth in silence, 
Took the nets, that hung together, 















3 10 


THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 


Dripping, freezing at the doorway, 

Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, 
Like a wisp of straw Ire broke them, 
Could not wring them without breaking, 
Such the strength was in his fingers. 

“ Lazy Kwasind ! ” said his father, 

“ In the hunt you never help me ; 

Every bow you touch is broken, 
Snapped asunder every arrow ; 


“ O’er these logs we cannot clamber ; 

Not a woodchuck could get through 
them, 

Not a squirrel clamber o’er them ! ” 

And straightway his pipe he lighted, 

And sat down to smoke and ponder. 

But before his pipe was finished, 

Lo ! the path was cleared before him ; 
All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, 



Yet come with me to the forest, 

You shall bring the hunting homeward.” 

Down a narrow pass they wandered, 
Where a brooklet led them onward, 
Where the trail of deer and bison 
Marked the soft mud on the margin, 

Till they found all further passage 
Shut against them, barred securely 
By the trunks of trees uprooted, 

Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, 

And forbidding further passage. 

“ We must go back,” said the old man, 


To the right hand, to the left hand, 

Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 

“ Lazy Kwasind ! ” said the young 
men, 

As they sported in the meadow ; 

“ Why stand idly looking at us, 

Leaning on the rock behind you ? 

Come and wrestle with the others, 

Let us pitch the quoit together ! ” 

Lazy Kwasind made no answer, 

To their challenge made no answer, 


















HIAWATHA'S SAILING. 311 


Only rose, and, slowly turning, 

Seized the huge rock in his fingers, 

Tore it from its deep foundation, 

Poised it in the air a moment, 

Pitched it sheer into the river, 

Sheer into the swift Pauwating, 

Where it still is seen in Summer. 

Once as down that foaming river, 

Down the rapids of Pauwating, 

Kwasind sailed with his companions, 

In the stream he saw a beaver, 

Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, 
Struggling with the rushing currents, 
Rising, sinking in the water. 

Without speaking, without pausing, 
Kwasind leaped into the river, 

Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, 
Through the whirlpools chased the 
beaver, 

Followed him among the islands, 

Stayed so long beneath the water, 

That his terrified companions 
Cried, “ Alas ! good by to Kwasind ! 

We shall nevermore see Kwasind ! ” 

But he reappeared triumphant, 

And upon his shining shoulders 
Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, 
Brought the King of all the Beavers. 

And these two, as I have told you, 
Were the friends of Hiawatha, 

Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind. 

Long they lived in peace together, 

Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

VII. 

HIAWATHA’S SAILING. 

“ Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree ! 
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-Tree ! 
Growing by the rushing river, 

Tall and stately in the valley ! 

I a light canoe will build me, 

Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, 

That shall float upon the river, 

Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 

Like a yellow water-lily ! 

“ Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree ! 
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, 

For the Summer-time is coming, 


And the sun is warm in heaven, 

And you need no white-skin wrapper ! ” 
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha 
In the solitary forest, 

By the rushing Taquamenaw, 

When the birds were singing gayly, 

In the Moon of Leaves were singing, 

And the sun, from sleep awaking, 

Started up and said, “ Behold me ! 
Geezis, the great Sun, behold me ! ” 

And the tree with all its branches 
Rustled in the breeze of morning, 

Saying, with a sigh of patience, 

“ Take my cloak, O Hiawatha ! ” 

With his knife the tree he girdled ; 

Just beneath its lowest branches, 

Just above the roots, he cut it, 

Till the sap came oozing outward ; 

Down the trunk, from top to bottom, 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, 

With a wooden wedge he raised it, 
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. 

“ Give me of your boughs, O Cedar ! 
Of your strong and pliant branches, 

My canoe to make more steady, 

Make more strong and firm beneath 
me ! ” 

Through the summit of the Cedar 
Went a sound, a cry of horror, 

Went a murmur of resistance ; 

But it whispered, bending downward, 

“ Take my boughs, O Hiawatha ! ” 

Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, 
Shaped them straightway to a frame¬ 
work, 

Like two bows he formed and shaped 
them, 

Like two bended bows together. 

“ Give me of your roots, O Tamarack ! 
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree ! 

My canoe to bind together, 

So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter, 

That the river may not wet me ! ” 

And the Larch, with all its fibres, 
Shivered in the air of morning, 

Touched his forehead with its tassels, 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 

“ Take them all, O Hiawatha ! ” 

From the earth he tore the fibres, 

Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree, 
Closely sewed the bark together, 

Bound it closely to the framework. 






3 12 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, 


t 

“ Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree ! 
Of your balsam and your resin, 

So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter, 

That the river may not wet me ! ” 

And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre, 
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, 
Rattled like a shore with pebbles, 
Answered wailing, answered weeping, 

“ Take my balm, O Hiawatha ! ” 


With his sleepy eyes looked at him, 

Shot his shining quills, like arrows, 
Saying, with a drowsy murmur, 

Through the tangle of his whiskers, 

“ Take my quills, O Hiawatha ! ” 

From the ground the quills he gath¬ 
ered, 

All the little shining arrows, 

Stained them red and blue and yellow, 
With the juice of roots and berries ; 



And he took the tears of balsam, 

Took the resin of the Fir-Tree, 

Smeared therewith each seam and fis¬ 
sure, 

Made each crevice safe from water. 

“ Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog! 
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog ! 
I will make a necklace of them, 

Make a girdle for my beauty, 

And two stars to deck her bosom ! ” 
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog 


Into his canoe he wrought them, 
Round its waist a shining girdle, 
Round its bows a gleaming necklace, 
On its breast two stars resplendent 
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded 
In the valley, by the river, 

In the bosom of the forest ; 

And the forest’s life was in it, 

All its mystery and its magic, 

All the lightness of the birch-tree, 
All the toughness of the cedar, 





































HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 


3 I 3 


All the larch’s supple sinews ; 

And it floated on the river 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 

Like a yellow water-lily. 

Paddles none had Pliawatha, 

Paddles none he had or needed, 

For his thoughts as paddles served him, 
And his wishes served to guide him ; 
Swift or slow at will he glided, 

Veered to right or left at pleasure. 

Then he called aloud to Kwasind, 

To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, 
Saying, “ Help me clear this river 
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.” 

Straight into the river Kwasind 
Plunged as if he were an otter, 

Dived as if he were a beaver, 

Stood up to his waist in water, 

To his arm-pits in the river, 

Swam and shouted in the river, 

Tugged at sunken logs and branches, 
With his hands he scooped the sand¬ 
bars, 

With his feet the ooze and tangle. 

And thus sailed my Hiawatha 
Down the rushing Taquamenaw, 

Sailed through all it's bends and wind¬ 
ings, 

Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, 
While his friend, the strong man, Kwa¬ 
sind, 

Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. 

Up and down the river went they, 

In and out among its islands, 

Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, 
Dragged the dead trees from its chan¬ 
nel, 

Made its passage safe and certain, 

Made a pathway for the people, 

From its springs among the mountains, 
To the waters of Pauwating, 

To the bay of Taquamenaw. 

VIII. 

hiawatha’s fishing. 

Forth upon the Gitche Gurnee, 

On the Shining Big-Sea-Water, 

With his fishing-line of cedar, 

Of the twisted bark of cedar, 

Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 


In his birch canoe exulting 
All alone went Hiawatha. 

Through the clear, transparent water 
He could see the fishes swimming 
Far down in the depths below him ; 

See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 

Like a sunbeam in the water, 

See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, 

Like a spider on the bottom, 

On the white and sandy bottom. 

At the stern sat Pliawatha, 

With his fishing-line of cedar ; 

In his plumes the breeze of morning 
Played as in the hemlock-branches ; 

On the bows, with tail erected, 

Sat the squirrel, Adjidamno ; 

In his fur the breeze of morning 
Played as in the prairie grasses. 

On the white sand of the bottom 
Lay the monster Mishe-Nama, 

Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes ; 
Through his gills he breathed the water 
With his fins he fanned and winnowed, 
With his tail he swept the sand-floor. 

There he lay in all his armor ; 

On each side a shield to guard him, 
Plates of bone upon his forehead, 

Down his sides and back and shoulders 
Plates of bone with spines projecting ! 
Painted was he with his war-paints, 
Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, 

Spots of brown and spots of sable ; 

And he lay there on the bottom, 

Fanning with his fins of purple, 

As above him Hiawatha 
In his birch canoe came sailing, 

With his fishing-line of cedar. 

“ Take my bait ! ” cried Hiawatha, 
Down into the depths beneath him, 

“ Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma ! 
Come up from below the water, 

Let us see which is the stronger ! ” 

And he dropped his line of cedar 
Through the clear, transparent water, 
Waited vainly for an answer, 

Long sat waiting for an answer, 

And repeating loud and louder, 

“ Take my bait, O King of Fishes ! ” 

Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water, 

Looking up at Hiawatha, 

Listening to his call and clamor, 

His unnecessary tumult, 











3 H 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Till he wearied of the shouting; 
And he said to the Kenozha, 

To the pike, the Maskenozha, 

“ Take the bait of this rude fellow, 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! ” 

In his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten ; 
As he drew it in, it tugged so 
That the birch canoe stood endwise, 


Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 

And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 

To the bream, with scales of crimson, 
“ Take the bait of this great boaster, 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! ” 

Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 



Like a birch log in the water, 

With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit. 

Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 

And he shouted through the water, 

“ Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 

You are but the pike, Kenozha, 

You are not the fish I wanted, 

You are not the King of Fishes ! ” 


Seized the line of Hiawatha, 

Swung with all his weight upon it, 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles, 
Round and round in gurgling eddies, 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches, 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins. 

But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 
Lifting up his disk refulgent, 
































HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 


3 1 


Loud he shouted in derision, 

“ Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 

You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 

You are not the fish I wanted, 

You are not the King of Fishes ! ” 

Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 

And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 

Heard the shout of Hiawatha, 

Heard his challenge of defiance, 

The unnecessary tumult, 

Ringing far across the water. 

From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 

Quivering in each nerve and fibre, 
Clashing all his plates of armor, 
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 

Flashing leaped into the sunshine, 
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha. 

Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 

As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids, 
Found himself in utter darkness, 

Groped about in helpless wonder, 

Till he felt a great heart beating, 
Throbbing in that utter darkness. 

And he smote it in his anger, 

With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 

Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 
Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it, 
Sick at heart, and faint and weary. 

Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch-canoe for safety, 

Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 

In the turmoil and confusion, 

Forth he might be hurled and perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 

Frisked and chattered very gayly, 

Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labor was completed. 

Then said Hiawatha to him, 

“ O my little friend, the squirrel, 

Bravely have you toiled to help me ; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 

And the name which now he gives you ; 
For hereafter and forever 
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you ! ” 


And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water, 

Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the pebbles, 

Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate Upon the margin, 

Felt him strand upon the pebbles, 

Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 

Lay there dead upon the margin. 

Then he heard a clang and flapping, 
As of many wings assembling, 

Heard a screaming and confusion, 

As of birds of prey contending, 

Saw a gleam of light above him, 

Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 

Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 

Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the opening, 
Heard them saying to each other, 

“ ’T is our brother, Hiawatha ! ” 

And he shouted from below them, 
Cried exulting from the caverns : 

“ O ye sea-gulls ! O my brothers ! 

I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma ; 

Make the rifts a little larger, 

With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison, 

And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achievements, 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 

Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers ! ” 

And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls 
Toiled with beak and claws together, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 

And from peril and from prison, 

From the body of the sturgeon, 

From the peril of the water, 

They released my Hiawatha. 

He was standing near his wigwam, 

On the margin of the water, 

And he called to old Nokomis, 

Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 

Lying lifeless on the pebbles, 

With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 

“ I have slain the Mis.he-Nahma, 
Slain the King of Fishes ! ” said he ; 

“ Look ! the sea-gulls feed upon him, 
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls 
Drive them not away, Nokomis, 

They have saved me from great peril 
In the body of the sturgeon, 




















i6 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Wait until their meal is ended, 

Till their craws are full with feasting, 

Till they homeward fly, at sunset, 

To their nests among the marshes ; 

Then bring all your pots and kettles, 

And make oil for us in Winter.” 

And she waited till the sun set, 

Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, 

Rose above the tranquil water, 

Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, 

From their banquet rose with clamor, 
And across the fiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off islands, 

To their nests among the rushes. 

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 

And Nokomis to her labor, 

Toiling patient in the moonlight, 

Till the sun and moon changed places, 
Till the sky was red with sunrise, 

And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, 
Came back from the reedy islands, 
Clamorous for their morning banquet. 

Three whole days and nights alternate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 

Till the waves washed through the rib- 
bones, 

Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 

And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma. 

IX. 

HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 

On the shores of Gitche Gurnee, 

Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

Stood Nokomis, the old woman, 

Pointing with her finger westward, 

O’er the water pointing westward, 

To the purple clouds of sunset. 

Fiercely the red sun descending 
Burned his way along the heavens, 

Set the sky on fire behind him, 

As war-parties, when retreating, 

Bum the prairies on their war-trail; 

And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward, 
Suddenly starting from his ambush, 
Followed fast those bloody footprints, 
Followed in that fiery war-trail, 

With its glare upon his features. 

And Nokomis, tire old woman, 

Pointing with her finger westward, 


Spake these words to Hiawatha : 

“ Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather, 
Megissogwon, the Magician, 

Manito of Wealth and Wampum, 
Guarded by his fiery serpents, 

Guarded by the black pitch-water. 

You can see his fiery serpents, 

The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Coiling, playing in the water ; 

You can see the black pitch-water 
Stretching far away beyond them, 

To the purple clouds of sunset ! 

“ He it was who slew my father, 

By his wicked wiles and cunning, 

When he from the moon descended, 
When he came on earth to seek me. 

He, the mightiest of Magicians, 

Sends the fever from the marshes, 

Sends the pestilential vapors, 

Sends the poisonous exhalations, 

Sends the white fog from the fen-lands, 
Sends disease and death among us ! 

“ Take your bow, O Hiawatha, 

Take your arrows, jasper-headed, 

Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, 

And your mittens, Minjekahwun, 

And your birch canoe for sailing, 

And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, 

So to smear its sides, that swiftly 
You may pass the black pitch-water ; 

Slay this merciless magician, 

Save the people from the fever 
That he breathes across the fen-lands, 
And avenge my father’s murder ! ” 
Straightway then my Hiawatha 
Armed himself with his all war-gear, 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing ; 
With his palm its sides he patted, 

Said with glee, “ Cheemaun, my darling, 
O my Birch-Canoe ! leap forward, 

Where you see the fiery serpents, 

Where you see the black pitch-water ! ” 
Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting, 
And the noble Hiawatha 
Sang his war-song wild and woful, 

And above him the war-eagle, 

The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 

Master of all fowls with feathers, 
Screamed and hurtled through the 
heavens. k 

Soon he reached the fiery serpents, 

The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
i Lying huge upon the water, 






























HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 


Sparkling, rippling in the water. 

Lying coiled across the passage, 

With their blazing crests uplifted, 
Breathing fiery fogs and vapors, 

So that none could pass beyond them. 
But the fearless Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : 

“ Let me pass my way, Ivenabeek, 

Let me go upon my journey ! ” 

And they answered, hissing fiercely. 


Dead lay all the fiery serpents, 

And among them Hiawatha 
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting : 

“ Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling ! 
Onward to the black pitch-water ! ” 
Then he took the oil of Nahma, 

And the bows and sides anointed, 
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly 
He might pass the black pitch-water. 

All night long he sailed upon it. 



With their fiery breath made answer : 
“ Back, go back ! O Shaugodaya ! 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart! ” 
Then the angry Hiawatha 
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, 

Shot them fast among the serpents ; 
Every twanging of the bow-string 
Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 

Every whizzing of an arrow 
Was a death-song of Kenabeek. 
Weltering in the bloody water, 


Sailed upon that sluggish water, 
Covered with its mould of ages, 

Black with rotting water-rushes, 

Rank with flags and leaves of lilies, 
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, 
Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, 
And by will-o’-the-wisps illumined, 
Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, 

In their, weary night-encampments. 

All the air was white with moonlight, 
All the water black with shadow, 

And around him the Suggema, 

















































3 18 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


The mosquito, sang his war-song. 

And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved their torches to mislead him ; 
And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, 

Thrust his head into the moonlight, 

Fixed his yellow eyes upon him, 

Sobbed and sank beneath the surface ; 
And anon a thousand whistles, 

Answered over all the fen-lands, 

And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Far off on the reedy margin, 

Heralded the hero’s coming. 

Westward thus fared Hiawatha, 
Toward the realm of Megissogwon, 
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, 
Till the level moon stared at him, 

In his face stared pale and haggard, 

Till the sun was hot behind him, 

Till it burned upon his shoulders, 

And before him on the upland 
He could see the Shining Wigwam 
Of the Manito of Wampum, 

Of the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then once more Cheemaun he patted, 
To his birch-canoe said, “ Onward ! ” 
And it stirred in all its fibres, 

And with one great bound of triumph 
Leaped across the water-lilies, 

Leaped through tangled flags and rushes, 
And upon the beach beyond them 
Dry-shod landed Hiawatha. 

Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, 

On the sand one end he rested, 

With his knee he pressed the middle, 
Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter, 
Took an arrow, jasper-headed, 

Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, 

Sent it singing as a herald, 

As a bearer of his message, 

Of his challenge loud and lofty : 

“ Come forth from your lodge, Pearl- 
Feather ! 

Hiawatha waits yout coming ! ” 

Straightway from the Shining Wigwam 
Came the mighty Megissogwon, 

Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, 

Dark and terrible in aspect, 

Clad from head to foot in wampum, 
Armed with all his warlike weapons, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 

Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow, 
Crested with great eagle feathers, 
Streaming upward, streaming outward. 


“ Well I know you, Hiawatha ! ” 

Cried he in a voice of thunder, 

In a tone of loud derision. 

“ Hasten back, O Shaugodaya ! 

Hasten back among the women, 

Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart! 

I will slay you as you stand there, 

As of old I slew her father ! ” 

But my Hiawatha answered, 

Nothing daunted, fearing nothing : 

“Big words do not smite like war-clubs, 
Boastful breath is not a bow-string, 
Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, 

Deeds are better things than words are, 
Actions mightier than boastings ! ” 

Then began the greatest battle 
That the sun had ever looked on, 

That the war-birds ever witnessed. 

All a Summer’s day it lasted, 

From the sunrise to the sunset; 

For the shafts of Hiawatha 
Harmless hit the shirt of wampum, 
Harmless fell the blows he dealt it 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Harmless fell the heavy war-club ; 

It could dash the rocks asunder, 

But it could not break the meshes 
Of that magic shirt of wampum. 

Till at sunset Hiawatha, 

Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, 
Wounded, weary, and desponding, 

With his mighty war-club broken, 

With his mittens torn and tattered, 

And three useless arrows only, 

Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, 

From whose branches trailed the mosses, 
And whose trunk was coated over 
With the Dead-man’s Moccasin-leather, 
With the fungus white and yellow. 

Suddenly from the boughs above him 
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker : 

“ Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, 

At the head of Megissogwon, 

Strike the tuft of hair upon it, 

At their roots the long black tresses ; 
There alone can he be wounded ! ” 

Winged with feathers tipped with 
jasper, 

Swift flew Hiawatha’s arrow, 

Just as Megissogwon, stooping^ 

Raised a heavy stone to throw it. 

Full upon the crown it struck him, 

At the roots of his long tresses, 







HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 


3 X 9 


And he reeled and staggered forward, 
Plunging like a wounded bison, 

Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, 

When the snow is on the prairie. 

Swifter flew the second arrow, 

In the pathway of the other, 

Piercing deeper than the other, 

Wounded sorer than the other; 

And the knees of Megissogwon 
Shook like windy reeds beneath him, 

Bent and trembled like the rushes. 

But the third and latest arrow 
Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest, 

And the mighty Megissogwon 
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, 

Saw the eyes of Death glare at him, 
Heard his voice call in the darkness ; 

At the feet of Hiawatha 
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, 

Lay the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then the grateful Hiawatha 
Called the Mama, the woodpecker, 

From his perch among the branches 
Of the melancholy pine-tree, 

And, in honor of his service, 

Stained with blood the tuft of feathers 
On the little head of Mama ; 

Even to this day he wears it, 

Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, 

As a symbol of his service. 

Then he stripped the shirt of wampum 
From the back of Megissogwon, 

As a trophy of the battle, 

As a signal of his conquest. 

On the shore he left the body, 

Half on land and half in water, 

In the sand his feet were buried, 

And his face was in the water, 

And above him, wheeled and clamored 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 

Sailing round in narrower circles, 
Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. 

From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, 

All his wealth of skins and wampum, 
Furs of bison and of beaver, 

Furs of sable and of ermine, 

Wampum belts and strings and pouches, 
Quivers wrought with beads of wampum, 
Filled with arrows, silver-headed. 

Homeward then he sailed exulting, 
Homeward through the black pitch- 
water, 


Homeward through the weltering ser¬ 
pents, 

With the trophies of the battle, 

With a shout and song of triumph. 

On the shore stood old Nokomis, 

On the shore stood Chibiabos, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
Waiting Tor the hero’s coming, 

Listening to his song of triumph. 

And the people of the village 
Welcomed him with songs and dances, 
Made a joyous feast, and shouted : 

“ Honor be to Hiawatha ! 

He has slain the great Pearl-Feather, 
Slain, the mightiest of Magicians, 

Him, who sent the fiery fever, 

Sent the white fog from the fen-lands, 
Sent disease and death among us ! ” 

Ever dear to Hiawatha 
Was the memory of Mama ! 

And in token of his friendship, 

As a mark of his remembrance, 

He adorned and decked his pipe-stem 
With the crimson tuft of feathers, 

With the blood-red crest of Mama. 

But the wealth of Megissogwon, 

All the trophies of the battle, 

He divided with his people, 

Shared it equally among them. 

X. 

HIAWATHA’S WOOING. 

“ As unto the bow the cord is, 

So unto the man is woman, 

Though she bends him, she obeys him, 
Though she draws him, yet she fol¬ 
lows, 

Useless each without the other ! ” 

Thus the youthful ITiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered, 

Much perplexed by various feelings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 

Of the lovely Laughing Water, 

In the land of the Dacotahs. 

“ Wed a maiden of your people,” 
Warning said the old Nokomis ; 

“ Go not eastward, go not westward, 

For a stranger, whom we know not ! 

Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
Is a neighbor’s homely daughter. 















320 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers ! ” 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 

And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : “ Dear old Nokomis, 

Very pleasant is the firelight, 

But I like the starlight better, 

Better do I like the moonlight ! ” 

Gravely then said old Nokomis : 

“ Bring not here an idle maiden, 

Bring not here a useless woman, 

Hands unskilful, feet unwilling ; 

Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 

Heart and hand that move together, 

Feet that run on willing errands ! ” 
Smiling answered Hiawatha : 

“ In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker’s daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 

I will bring her to your wigwam, 

She shall run upon your errands, 

Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 

Be the sunlight of my people ! ” 

Still dissuading said Nokomis : 

“ Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 

Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 

Often is there war between us, 

There are feuds yet unforgotten, 

Wounds that ache and still may open ! ” 
Laughing answered Hiawatha : 

“ For that reason, if no other, 

Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 

That our tribes might be united, 

That old feuds might be forgotten, 

And old wounds be healed forever ! ” 
Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 

To the.land of handsome women ; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 

Through interminable forests, 

Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic, 

At each stride a mile he measured ; 

Yet the way seemed long before him, 

And his heart outrun his footsteps; 

And he journeyed without resting, 

Till he heard the cataract’s laughter, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 

“ Pleasant is the sound ! ” he murmured, 
“ Pleasant is the voice that calls me ! ” 


On the outskirts of the forest, 

’Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 

But they saw not Hiawatha ; 

To his bow he whispered, “ Fail not ! ” 
To his arrow whispered, “ Swerve not! ” 
Sent it singing on its errand, 

To the red heart of the roebuck; 

Threw the deer across his shoulder, 

And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 

In the land of the Dacotahs, 

Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 

At his side, in all her beauty, 

Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 

Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 

Of the past the old man’s thoughts were, 
And the maiden’s of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat there, 

Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison, 

On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 

Shot the wild-goose, flying southward, 

On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; 
Thinking of the great war-parties, 

How they came to buy his arrows, 

Could not fight without his arrows. 

Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ! 
Now the men were all like women, 

Only used their tongues for weapons ! 

She was thinking of a hunter, 

From another tribe and country, 

Young and tall and very handsome, 

Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father’s arrows, 

Sat and rested in the wigwam, 

Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed. 

She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha ? 

On the mat her hands lay idle, 

And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard a 
footstep, 

Heard a rustling in the branches, 

And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer upon his shoulders, 







HIAWATHA'S WOOING, 


3 21 


Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 
Bade him enter at the doorway, 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 

“ Hiawatha, you are welcome ! ” 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 


Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 

Laid aside her mat unfinished, 

Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 

Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 



Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
And the maiden looked up at him, 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 

Said with gentle look and accent, 

“ You are welcome, Hiawatha ! ” 

Very spacious was the wigwam, 

Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 

And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter, 

21 


Listened while her father answered, 

But not once her lips she opened, 

Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 

As he talked of old Nokomis, 

Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty 

































322 THE SONG OF IIIAWATHA. 


In the land of the Ojibways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful. 

“ After many years of warfare, 

Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the Ojibways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs.” 

Thus continued Hiawatha, 

And then added, speaking slowly, 

“ That this peace may last forever, 

And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 

Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 

Loveliest of Dacotah women ! ” 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 

Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 

Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 

And made answer very gravely : 

“ Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 

Let your heart speak, Minnehaha ! ” 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 

As she went to Hiawatha, 

Softly took the seat beside him, 

While she said, and blushed to say it, 

“ I will follow you, my husband ! ” 

This was Hiawatha’s wooing ! 

Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 

In the land of the Dacotahs ! 

From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 

Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 

Crying to them from afar-off, 

“ Fare thee well, O Minnehaha ! ” 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 

Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, and saying : 

“ Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love us ! 
Just when they have learned to help us, 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 


Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 

And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger ! ” 
Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
Through interminable forests, 

Over meadow, over mountain, 

Over river, hill, and hollow. 

Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 

Though they journeyed very slowly, 
Though his pace he checked and slack¬ 
ened 

To the steps of Laughing Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden ; 

Light he thought her as a feather, 

As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 

Bent aside the swaying branches, 

Made at night a lodge of branches, 

And a bed with boughs of hemlock, 

And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 

All the travelling winds went with 
them, 

O’er the meadow, through the forest; 

All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slum¬ 
ber ; 

From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 

Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 

And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 

Scampered from the path before them, 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 

Sat erect upon his haunches, 

Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 

Pleasant was the journey homeward ! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart’s-ease; 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 

“ Happy are you, Hiawatha, 

Having such a wife to love you ! ” 

Sang the robin, the Opechee, 

“ Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
Having such a noble husband ! ” 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches, 
Saying to them, “ O my children, 

Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, 

Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
Rule by love, O Hiawatha ! ” 

From the sky the moon looked at them, 







HI A IVA THA 'S WEDDING-FEAS T. 


323 


Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
Whispered to them, “ O my children, 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 

Man imperious, woman feeble ; 

Half is mine, although I follow ; 

Rule by patience, Laughing Water ! ” 
Thus it was they journeyed homeward; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, fire¬ 
light, 

Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 

In the land of handsome women. 

XI. 

Hiawatha’s wedding-feast. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How the handsome Yenadizze 
Danced at Hiawatha’s wedding; 

How the gentle Chibiabos, 

He the sweetest of musicians, 

Sang his songs of love and longing; 

How Iagoo, the great boaster, 

He the marvellous story-teller, 

Told his tales of strange adventure, 

That the feast might be more joyous, 
That the time might pass more gayly, 
And the guests be more contented. 

Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis 
Made at Hiawatha’s wedding ; 

All the bowls were made of bass-wood, 
White and polished very smoothly, 

All the spoons of horn of bison, 

Black and polished very smoothly. 

She had sent through all the village 
Messengers with wands of willow, 

As a sign of invitation, 

As a token of the feasting ; 

And the wedding guests assembled, 

Clad in all their richest raiment, 

Robes of fur and belts of wampum, 
Splendid with their paint and plumage, 
Beautiful with beads and tassels. 

First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, 
And the pike, the Maskenozha, 

Caught and cooked by old Nokomis ; 
Then on pemican they feasted, 

Pemican and buffalo marrow, 


Haunch of deer and hump of bison, 
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, 

And the wild rice of the river. 

But the gracious Hiawatha, 

And the lovely Laughing Water, 

And the careful old Nokomis, 

Tasted not the food before them, 

Only waited on the others, 

Only served their guests in silence. 

And when all the guests had finished, 
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, 

From an ample pouch of otter, 

Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking 
With tobacco from the South-land, 

Mixed with bark of the red willow, 

And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. 

Then she said, “ O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance for us your merry dances, 

Dance the Beggar’s Dance to please us, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 

That the time may pass more gayly, 

And our guests be more contented ! ” 

Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He the idle Yenadizze, 

He the merry mischief-maker, 

Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, 
Rose among the guests assembled. 

Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, 
In the merry dance of snow-shoes, 

In the play of quoits and ball-play ; 
Skilled was he in games of hazard, 

In all games of skill and hazard, 
Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, 
Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. 

Though the warriors called him Faint- 
Heart, 

Called him coward, Shaugodaya, 

Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, 

Little heeded he their jesting, 

Little cared he for their insults, 

For the women and the maidens 
Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He was dressed in shirt of doe-skin, 
White and soft, and fringed with ermine, 
All inwrought with beads of wampum ; 
He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, 
Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine 
And in moccasins of buck-skin, 

Thick with quills and beads embroidered. 
On his head were plumes of swan’s down, 
On his heels were tails of foxes, 

In one hand a fan of feathers, 

And a pipe was in the other. 











3 2 4 


THE SONG OF HIA WA THA. 


Barred with streaks of red and yellow, 
Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, 
Shone the face of Pau-puk-Keewis. 

From his forehead fell his tresses, 
Smooth, and parted like a woman’s, 
Shining bright with oil, and plaited, 

Hung with braids of scented grasses, 

As among the guests assembled, 

To the sound of flutes and singing, 

To the sound of drums and voices. 


Till the dust and wind together 
Swept in eddies round about him. 

Then along the sandy margin 
Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, 

On he sped with frenzied gestures, 
Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it 
Wildly in the air around him ; 

Till the wind became a whirlwind, 

Till the sand was blown and sifted 
lake great snowdrifts o’er the landscape. 



Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Iveewis, 
And began his mystic dances. 

First he danced a solemn measure, 
Very slow in step and gesture, 

In and out among the pine-trees, 

Through the shadows and the sun¬ 
shine, 

Treading softly like a panther. 

Then more swiftly and still swifter, 
Whirling, spinning round in circles, 
Leaping o’er the guests assembled, 
Eddying round and round the wigwam, 
Till the leaves went whirling with him, 


Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, 
Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo ! 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced his Beggar’s Dance to please 
them, 

And, returning, sat down laughing 
1 here among the guests assembled, 

Sat and fanned himself serenely 
With his fan of turkey-feathers. 

Then they said to Chibiabos, 

To the friend of Hiawatha, 

To the sweetest of all singers, 

To the best of all musicians, 





























HI A WA THA'S WE DDING-FEA ST. 325 

“ Sing to us, 0 Chibiabos ! 

He the friend of old Nokomis, 

Songs of love and songs of longing, 

Jealous of the sweet musician, 

That the feast may be more joyous, 

Jealous of the applause they gave him, 

That the time may pass more gayly, 

Saw in all the eyes around him, 

And our guests be more contented ! ” 

Saw in all their looks and gestures, 

And the gentle Chibiabos 

That the wedding guests assembled 

Sang in accents sweet and tender, 

Longed to hear his pleasant stories, 

Sang in tones of deep emotion, 

His immeasurable falsehoods. 

Songs of love and songs of longing ; 

Very boastful was Iagoo ; 

Looking still at Hiawatha, 

Never heard he an adventure 

Looking at fair Laughing Water, 

But himself had met a greater ; 

Sang he softly, sang in this wise : 

Never any deed of daring 

“ Onaway ! Awake, beloved ! 

But himself had done a bolder ; 

Thou the wild-flower of the forest ! 

Never any marvellous story 

Thou the wild-bird of the prairie ! 

But himself could tell a stranger. 

Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like ! 

Would you listen to his boasting, 

“ If thou only lookest at me, 

Would you only give him credence, 

I am happy, I am happy, 

No one ever shot an arrow 

As the lilies of the prairie 

Half so far and high as he had ; 

When they feel the dew upon them ! 

Ever caught so many fishes, 

“ Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance 

Ever killed so many reindeer, 

Of the wild-flowers in the morning, 

Ever trapped so many beaver ! 

As their fragrance is at evening, 

None could run so fast as he could, 

In the Moon when leaves are falling. 

None could dive so deep as he could, 

“ Does not all the blood within me 

None could swim so far as he could ; 

Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, 

None had made so many journeys, 

As the springs to meet the sunshine, 

None had seen so many wonders, 

In the Moon when nights are brightest ? 

As this wonderful Iagoo, 

“ Onaway ! my heart sings to thee, 

As this marvellous story-teller ! 

Sings with joy when thou art near me, 

Thus his name became a by-word 

As the sighing, singing branches 

And a jest among the people ; 

In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries ! 

And whene’er a boastful hunter 

“ When thou art not pleased, beloved, 

Praised his own address too highly, 

Then my heart is sad and darkened, 

Or a warrior, home returning, 

As the shining river darkens 

Talked too much of his achievements, 

When the clouds drop shadows on it ! 

All his hearers cried, “ Iagoo ! 

“ When thou smilest, my beloved, 

Here’s Iagoo come among us ! ” 

Then my troubled heart is brightened, 

He it was who carved the cradle 

As in sunshine gleam the ripples 

Of the little Hiawatha, 

That the cold wind makes in rivers. 

Carved its framework out of linden, 

“ Smiles the earth, and smile the 

Bound it strong with reindeer sinews ; 

waters, 

He it was who taught him later 

Smile the cloudless skies above us, 

How to make his bows and arrows, 

But I lose the way of smiling 

How to make the bows of ash-tree, 

When thou art no longer near me ! 

And the arrows of the oak-tree. 

“ I myself, myself ! behold me ! 

So among the guests assembled 

Blood of my beating heart, behold me ! 

At my Hiawatha’s wedding 

O awake, awake, beloved ! 

Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, 

Onaway ! awake, beloved ! ” 

Sat the marvellous story-teller. 

Thus the gentle Chibiabos 

And they said, “ 0 good Iagoo, 

Sang his song of love and longing ; 

Tell us now a tale of wonder, 

And Iagoo, the great boaster, 

Tell us of some strange adventure, 

He the marvellous story-teller, 

That the feast may be more joyous, 






326 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented ! ” 
And Iagoo answered straightway, 

“ You shall hear a tale of wonder, 

You shall hear the strange adventures 
Of Osseo, the Magician, 

From the Evening Star descended.” 

XII. 

THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 

Can it be the sun descending 
O’er the level plain of water ? 

Or the Red Swan floating, flying, 
Wounded by the magic arrow, 

Staining all the waves with crimson, 
With the crimson of its life-blood, 
Filling all the air with splendor, 

With the splendor of its plumage ? 

Yes ; it is the sun descending, 

Sinking down into the water ; 

All the sky is stained with purple, 

All the water flushed with crimson ! 

No ; it is the Red Swan floating, 

Diving down beneath the water ; 

To the sky its wings are lifted, 

With its blood the waves are reddened ! 

Over it the Star of Evening 
Melts and trembles through the purple, 
Hangs suspended in the twilight. 

No ; it is a bead of wampum 
On the robes of the Great Spirit, 

As he passes through the twilight, 
Walks in silence through the heavens. 

This with joy beheld Iagoo 
And he said in haste : “ Behold it! 

See the sacred Star of Evening ! 

You shall hear a tale of wonder, 

Hear the story of Osseo, 

Son of the Evening Star, Osseo ! 

“ Once, in days no more remembered, 
Ages nearer the beginning, 

When the heavens were closer to us, 
And the Gods were more familiar, 

In the North-land lived a hunter, 

With ten young and comely daughters, 
Tall and lithe as wands of willow ; 

Only Oweenee, the youngest, 

She the wilful and the wayward, 

She the silent, dreamy maiden, 

Was the fairest of the sisters. 

“ All these women married warriors, 


Married brave and haughty husbands ; 
Only Oweenee, the youngest, 

Laughed and flouted all her lovers, 

All her young and handsome suitors, 

And then married old Osseo, 

Old Osseo, poor and ugly, 

Broken with age and weak with coughing. 
Always coughing like a squirrel. 

“ Ah, but beautiful within him 
Was the spirit of Osseo, 

From the Evening Star descended, 

Star of Evening, Star of Woman, 

Star of tenderness and passion ! 

All its fire was in his bosom, 

All its beauty in, his spirit, 

All its mystery in his being, 

All its splendor in his language ! 

“ And her lovers, the rejected, 
Handsome men with belts of wampum, 
Handsome men with paint and feathers, 
Pointed at her in derision, 

Followed her with jest and laughter. 

But she said : ‘ I care not for you, 

Care not for your belts of wampum, 

Care not for your paint and feathers, 

Care not for your jests and laughter ; 

I am happy with Osseo ! ’ 

“ Once to some great feast invited, 
Through the damp and dusk of evening 
Walked together the ten sisters, 

Walked together with their husbands ; 
Slowly followed old Osseo, 

With fair Oweenee beside him ; 

All the others chatted gayly, 

These two only walked in silence. 

“ At the western sky Osseo 
Gazed intent, as if imploring, 

Often stopped and gazed imploring 
At the trembling Star of Evening, 

At the tender Star of Woman ; 

And they heard him murmur softly, 

‘ Ah, showain nemeshin , A r osa ! 

Pity, pity me, my father ! ’ 

“ ‘ Listen ! ’ said the eldest sister, 

‘ He is praying to his father ! 

What a pity that the old man 
Does not stumble in the pathway, 

Does not break his neck by falling ! ’ 

And they laughed till all the forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

“ On their pathway through the wood¬ 
lands 

Lay an oak, by storms uprooted, 








THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 


327 




Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, 
Buried half in leaves and mosses, 
Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hol¬ 
low. 

And Osseo, when he saw it, 

Gave a shout, a cry of anguish, 

Leaped into its yawning cavern, 

At one end went in an old man, 

Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ; 


Laughed until the echoing forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

“ But Osseo turned not from her, 
Walked with slower step beside her, 
Took her hand, as brown and withered 
As an oak-leaf is in Winter, 

Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, 
Soothed her with soft words of kind 
ness 



From the other came a young man, 

Tall and straight and strong and hand¬ 
some. 

“ Thus Osseo was transfigured, 

Thus restored to youth and beauty ; 

But, alas for good Osseo, 

And for Oweenee, the faithful ! 

Strangely, too, was she transfigured. 
Changed into a weak old woman, 

With a staff she tottered onward, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ! 

And the sisters and their husbands 


Till they reached the lodge of feasting, 
Till they sat down in the wigwam, 
Sacred to the Star of Evening, 

To the tender Star of Woman. 

“ Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, 
At the banquet sat Osseo ; 

All were merry, all were happy, 

All were joyous but Osseo. 

Neither food nor drink he tasted, 
Neither did he speak nor listen, 

But as one bewildered sat he, 

Looking dreamily and sadly, 












































328 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


First at Oweenee, then upward 
At the gleaming sky above them. 

“ Then a voice was heard, a whisper, 
Coming from the starry distance, 

Coming from the empty vastness, 

Low, and musical, and tender ; 

And the voice said : ‘ O Osseo ! 

O my son, my best beloved ! 

Broken are the spells that bound you, 

All the charms of the magicians, 

All the magic powers of evil; 

Come to me ; ascend, Osseo ! 

“ ‘ Taste the food that stands before 
you : 

It is blessed and enchanted, 

It has magic virtues in it, 

It will change you to a spirit. 

All your bowls and all your kettles 
Shall be wood and clay no longer ; 

But the bowls be changed to wampum, 
And the kettles shall be silver ; 

They shall shine like shells of scarlet, 
Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. 

“ ‘ And the women shall no longer 
Bear the dreary doom of labor, 

But be changed to birds, and glisten 
With the beauty of the starlight, 

Painted with the dusky splendors 
Of the skies and clouds of evening ! ’ 

“ What Osseo heard as whispers, 

What as words he comprehended, 

Was but music to the others, 

Music as of birds afar off, 

Of the whippoorwill afar off, 

Of the lonely Wawonaissa 
Singing in the darksome forest. 

“ Then the lodge began to tremble, 
Straight began to shake and tremble, 

And they felt it rising, rising, 

Slowly through the air ascending, 

From the darkness of the tree-tops 
Forth into the dewy starlight, 

Till it passed the topmost branches ; 

And behold ! the wooden dishes 
All were changed to shells of scarlet ! 
And behold ! the earthen kettles 
All were changed to bowls of silver! 

And the roof-poles of the wigwam 
Were as glittering rods of silver, 

And the roof of bark upon them 
As the shining shards of beetles. 

“ Then Osseo gazed around him, 

And he saw the nine fair sisters, 


All the sisters and their husbands, 
Changed to birds of various plumage. 
Some were jays and some were magpies, 
Others thrushes, others blackbirds ; 

And they hopped, and sang, and twittered, 
Perked and fluttered all their feathers, 
Strutted in their shining plumage, 

And their tails like fans unfolded. 

“ Only Oweenee, the youngest, 

Was not changed, but sat in silence, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, 

Looking sadly at the others ; 

Till Osseo, gazing upward, 

Gave another cry of anguish, 

Such a cry as he had uttered 
By the oak-tree in the forest. 

“ Then returned her youth and beauty, 
And her soiled and tattered garments 
Were transformed to robes of ermine, 
And her staff became a feather, 

Yes, a shining silver feather ! 

“ And again the wigwam trembled, 
Swayed and rushed through airy currents, 
Through transparent cloud and vapor, 
And amid celestial splendors 
On the Evening Star alighted, 

As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, 

As a leaf drops on a river, 

As the thistle-down on water. 

“ Forth with cheerful words of welcome 
Came the father of Osseo, 

He with radiant locks of silver, 

He with eyes serene and tender. 

And he said : ‘ My son, Osseo, 

Hang the cage of birds you bring there, 
Hang the cage with rods of silver, 

And the birds with glistening feathers, 

At the doorway of my wigwam.’ 

“ At the door he hung the bird-cage, 
And they entered in and gladly 
Listened to Osseo’s father, 

Ruler of the Star of Evening, 

As he said : ‘ O my Osseo ! 

I have had compassion on you, 

Given you back your youth and beauty, 
Into birds of various plumage 
Changed your sisters and their husbands ; 
Changed them thus because they mocked 
you 

In the figure of the old man, 

In that aspect sad and wrinkled, 

Could not see your heart of passion, 
Could not see your youth immortal; 







THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 329 


Only Oweenee, the faithful, 

Saw your naked heart and loved you. 

“ ‘ In the lodge that glimmers yonder 
In the little star that twinkles 
Through the vapors, on the left hand, 
Lives the envious Evil Spirit, 

The Wabeno, the magician, 

Who transformed you to an old man. 

Take heed lest his beams fall on you, 

For the rays he darts around him 
Are the power of his enchantment, 

Are the arrows that he uses.” 

“ Many years, in peace and quiet, 

On the peaceful .Star of Evening 
Dwelt Osseo with his father ; 

Many years, in song and flutter, 

At the doorway of the wigwam, 

Hung the cage with rods of silver, 

And fair Oweenee, the faithful, 

Bore a son unto Osseo, 

With the beauty of his mother, 

With the courage of his father. 

“ And the boy grew up and prospered, 
And Osseo, to delight him, 

Made him little bows and arrows, 

Opened the great cage of silver, 

And let loose his aunts and uncles, 

All those birds with glossy feathers, 

For his little son to shoot at. 

“ Round and round they wheeled and 
darted, 

Filled the Evening Star with music, 

With their songs of joy and freedom ; 
Filled the Evening Star with splendor, 
With the fluttering of their plumage ; 

Till the boy, the little hunter, 

Bent his bow and shot an arrow, 

Shot a swift and fatal arrow, 

And a bird, with shining feathers, 

At his feet fell wounded sorely. 

“ But, O wondrous transformation ! 

’T was no bird he saw before him, 

’T was a beautiful young woman, 

With the arrow in her bosom ! 

“ When her blood fell on the planet, 
On the sacred Star of Evening, 

Broken was the spell of magic, 

Powerless was the strange enchantment, 
And the youth, the fearless bowman, 
Suddenly felt himself descending, 

Held by unseen hands, but sinking 
Downward through the empty spaces, 
Downward through the clouds and vapors, 


Till he rested on an island, 

On an island, green and grassy, 

Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water. 

“ After him he saw descending 
All the birds with shining feathers, 
Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, 

Like the painted leaves of Autumn ; 

And the lodge with poles of silver, 

With its roof like wings of beetles, 

Like the shining shards of beetles, 

By the winds of heaven uplifted, 

Slowly sank upon the island, 

Bringing back the good Osseo, 

Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 

“ Then the birds, again transfigured, 
Reassumed the shape of mortals, 

Took their shape, but not their stature ; 
They remained as Little People, 

Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjics, 

And on pleasant nights of Summer, 

When the Evening Star was shining, 
Hand in hand they danced together 
On the island’s craggy headlands, 

On the sand-beach low and level. 

“ Still their glittering lodge is seen 
there, 

On the tranquil Summer evenings, 

And upon the shore the fisher 
Sometimes hears their happy voices, 

Sees them dancing in the starlight ! ” 
When the story was completed, 

When the wondrous tale was ended, 
Looking round upon his listeners, 
Solemnly Iagoo added : 

“ There are great men, I have known 
such, 

Whom their people understand not, 
Whom they even make a jest of, 

Scoff and jeer at in derision. 

From the story of Osseo 

Let us learn the fate of jesters ! ” 

All the wedding guests delighted 
Listened to the marvellous story, 
Listened laughing and applauding, 

And they whispered to each other : 

“ Does he mean himself, I wonder ? 

And are we the aunts and uncles ? ” 

Then again sang Chibiabos, 

Sang a song of love and longing, 

In those accents sweet and tender, 

In those tones of pensive sadness, 

Sang a maiden’s lamentation 
For her lover, her Algonquin. 






330 . THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 


“ When I think of my beloved, 

Ah me ! think of my beloved, 

When my heart is thinking of him, 

O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

“ Ah me ! when I parted from him, 
Round my neck he hung the wampum, 
As a pledge, the snow-white wampum, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

“ I will go with you, he whispered, 

Ah me ! to your native country ; 

Let me go with you, he whispered, 

O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

“ Far away, away, I answered, 

Very far away, I answered, 

Ah me ! is my native country, 

O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

“ When I looked back to behold him, 
Where we parted, to behold him, 

After me he still was gazing, 

O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

“ By the tree he still was standing, 

By the fallen tree was standing, 

That had dropped into the water, 

O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

“ When I think of my beloved, 

Ah me ! think of my beloved, 

When my heart is thinking of him, 

O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! ” 

Such was Hiawatha’s Wedding, 

Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such the story of Iagoo, 

Such the songs of Chibiabos ; 

Thus the wedding banquet ended, 

And the wedding guests departed, 
Leaving Hiawatha happy 
With the night and Minnehaha. 

XIII. 

BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS. 

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, 

Of the happy days that followed, 

In the land of the Ojibwavs, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful ! 

Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, 

Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields ! 

Buried was the bloody hatchet, 

Buried was the dreadful war-club, 

Buried were all warlike weapons, 

And the war-cry was forgotten. 

There was peace among the nations ; 
Unmolested roved the hunters. 


Built the birch-canoe for sailing, 

Caught the fish in lake and river, 

Shot the deer and trapped the beaver ; 
Unmolested worked the women, 

Made their sugar from the maple, 
Gathered wild rice in the meadows, 
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. 

All around the happy village 
Stood the maize-fields, green and shin¬ 
ing, 

Waved the green plumes of Mondamin, 
Waved his soft and sunny tresses, 

Filling all the land with plenty. 

’Twas the women who in Spring-time 
Planted the broad fields and fruitful, 
Buried in the earth Mondamin ; 

’T was the women who in Autumn 
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Even as Hiawatha taught them. 

Once, when all the maize was planted, 
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, 

Spake and said to Minnehaha, 

To his wife, the Laughing Water : 

“ You shall bless to-night the cornfields, 
Draw a magic circle round them, 

To protect them from destruction, 

Blast of mildew, blight of insect, 
Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! 

“ In the night, when all is silence, 

In the night, when all is darkness, 

When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams, 

So that not an ear can hear you, 

So that not an eye can see you, 

Rise up from your bed in silence, 

Lay aside your garments wholly, 

Walk around the fields you planted, 
Round the borders of the cornfields, 
Covered by your tresses only, 

Robed with darkness as a garment. 

“ Thus the fields shall be more fruit¬ 
ful, 

And the passing of your footsteps 
Draw a magic circle round them. 

So that neither blight nor mildew, 

Neither burrowing worm nor insect, 

Shall pass o’er the magic circle ; 

Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, 

Nor the spider, Subbekashe, 

Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keene,. 
Nor the mighty caterpillar, 







BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS. 


33 1 


Way-muk-lcwana, with the bear-skin, 
King of all the caterpillars ! ” 

On the tree-tops near the cornfields 
Sat the hungry crows and ravens, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 

With his Land of black marauders. 

And they laughed at Hiawatha, 

Till the tree-tops shook with laughter, 
With their melancholy laughter 
At the words of Hiawatha. 

“ Hear him ! ” said they ; “ hear the 
Wise Man, 

Hear the plots of Hiawatha ! ” 

When the noiseless night descended 
Broad and dark o’er field and forest, 
When the mournful Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, 

And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 

Shut the doors of all the wigwams, 

From her bed rose Laughing Water, 

Laid aside her garments wholly, 

And with darkness clothed and guarded 
Unashamed and unaffrighted, 

Walked securely round the cornfields, 
Drew the sacred, magic circle 
Of her footprints round the cornfields. 

No one but the Midnight only 
Saw her beauty in the darkness, 

No one but the Wawonaissa 
Heard the panting of her bosom ; 
Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her 
Closely in his sacred mantle, 

So that none might see her beauty, 

So that none might boast, “ I saw her ! ” 
On the morrow, as the day dawned, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Gathered all his black marauders, 

Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, 
Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, 

And descended, fast and fearless, 

On the fields of Hiawatha, 

On the grave of the Mondamin. 

“ We will drag Mondamin,” said they 
“ From the grave where he is buried,” 
Spite of all the magic circles 
Laughing Water draws around it, 

Spite of all the sacred footprints 
Minnehaha stamps upon it ! ” 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, 

Had o’erheard the scornful laughter 
When they mocked him from the tree- 
tops. 


“ Kaw ! ” he said, “ my friends the 
ravens ! 

Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens ! 

I will teach you all a lesson 
That shall not be soon forgotten ! ” 

He had risen before the daybreak, 

He had spread o’er all the cornfields 
Snares to catch the black marauders, 

And was lying now in ambush 
In the neighboring grove of pine-trees, 
Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, 
Waiting for the jays and ravens. 

Soon they came with caw and clamor, 
Rush of wings and cry of voices, 

To their work of devastation, 

Settling down upon the cornfields, 
Delving deep with beak and talon, 

For the body of Mondamin. 

And with all their craft and cunning, 

All their skill in wiles of warfare, 

They perceived no danger near them, 

Till their claws became entangled, 

Till they found themselves imprisoned 
In the snares of Hiawatha. 

From his place of ambush came he, 
Striding terrible among them, 

And so awful was his aspect 
That the bravest quailed with terror. 
Without mercy he destroyed them 
Right and left, by tens and twenties, 

And their wretched, lifeless bodies 
Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows 
Round the consecrated cornfields, 

As a signal of his vengeance, 

As a warning to marauders. 

Only Kahgahgee, the leader, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 

He alone was spared among them 
As a hostage for his people. 

With his prisoner-string he bound him, 
Led him captive to his wigwam, 

Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark 
To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. 

“ Kahgahgee, my raven ! ” said he, 

“ You the leader of the robbers, 

You the plotter of this mischief, 

The contriver of this outrage, 

I will keep you, I will hold you, 

As a hostage for your people, 

As a pledge of good behavior ! ” 

And he left him, grim and sulky, 
Sitting in the morning sunshine 
On the summit of the wigwam. 










33 2 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


Croaking fiercely his displeasure, 
Flapping his great sable pinions, 

Vainly struggling for his freedom, 

Vainly calling on his people ! 

Summer passed, and Shawondasse 
Breathed his sighs o’er all the landscape, 
From the South-land sent his ardors, 

Wafted kisses warm and tender ; 

And the maize-field grew and ripened, 
Till it stood in all the splendor 


Strip him of his plumes and tassels, 

Of his garments green and yellow ! ” 

And the merry Laughing Water 
Went rejoicing from the wigwam, 

With Nokomis, old and wrinkled, 

And they called the women round them, 
Called the young men and the maidens, 
To the harvest of the cornfields, 

T'o the husking of the maize-ear. 

On the border of the forest, 



Of its garments green and yellow, 

Of its tassels and its plumage. 

And the maize-ears full and shining 
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of ver¬ 
dure. 

Then Nokomis, the old woman, 

Spake, and said to Minnehaha : 

“ ’Tis the Moon when leaves are falling ; 
All the wild rice has been gathered, 

And the maize is ripe and ready ; 

Let us gather in the harvest, 

Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 


Underneath the fragrant pine-trees, 

Sat the old men and the warriors 
Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 

In uninterrupted silence 
Looked they, at the gamesome labor 
Of the young men and the women ; 
Listened to their noisy talking, 

To their laughter and their singing, 
Heard them chattering like the magpies, 
Heard them laughing like the blue-jays, 
Heard them singing like the robins. 

And whene’er some lucky maiden 




































PIC PURE- WRITING. 333 


Found a red ear in the husking, 

Found a maize-ear red as blood is, 

“ Nushka ! ” cried they all together, 

“ Nushka ! you shall have a sweetheart. 
You shall have a handsome husband ! ” 

“ Ugh ! ” the old men all responded 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees. 

And whene’er a youth or maiden 
Found a crooked ear in husking, 

Found a maize-ear in the husking 
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, 

Then they laughed and sang together, 
Crept and limped about the cornfields, 
Mimicked in their gait and gestures 
Some old man, bent almost double, 
Singing singly or together : 

“ Wagemin, the thief of cornfields ! 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! ” 

Till the cornfields rang with laughter, 
Till from Hiawatha’s wigwam 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Screamed and quivered in his anger, 

And from all the neighboring tree-tops 
Cawed and croaked the black marauders. 
“Ugh ! ” the old men all responded, 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees ! 

XIV. 

PICTURE-WRITING. 

In those days said Hiawatha, 

“ Lo ! how all things fade and perish ! 
From the memory of the old men 
Pass away the great traditions, 

The achievements of the warriors, 

The adventures of the hunters, 

All the wisdom of the Medas, 

All the craft of the Wabenos, 

All the marvellous dreams and visions 
Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets ! 

“ Great men die and are forgotten, 
Wise men speak : their words of wisdom 
Perish in the ears that hear them, 

Do not reach the generations 
That, as yet unborn, are waiting 
In the great, mysterious darkness 
Of the speechless days that shall be ! 

“ On the grave-posts of our fathers 
Are no signs, no figures painted ; 

Who are in those graves we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 

Of what kith they are and kindred, 


From what old, ancestral Totem, 

Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, 

They descended, this we know not, 

Only know they are our fathers. 

“ Face to face we speak together, 

But we cannot speak when absent, 

Cannot send our voices from us 
To the friends that dwell afar off; 

Cannot send a secret message, 

But the bearer learns our secret, 

May pervert it, may betray it, 

May reveal it unto others.” 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking 
In the solitary forest, 

Pondering, musing in the forest, 

On the welfare of his people. 

From his pouch he took his colors, 
Took his paints of different colors, 

On the smooth bark of a birch-tree 
Painted many shapes and figures, 
Wonderful and mystic figures, 

And each figure had a meaning, 

Each some word or thought suggested. 

Gitche Manito the Mighty, 

He, the Master of Life, was painted 
As an egg, with points projecting 
To the four winds of the heavens. 
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, 

Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Mitche Manito the Mighty, 

He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, 

As a serpent was depicted, 

As Kenabeek, the great serpent. 

Very crafty, very cunning, 

Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, 

Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Life and Death he drew as circles, 

Life was white, but Death was darkened : 
Sun and moon and stars he painted, 

Man and beast, and fish and reptile, 
Forests, mountains, lakes and rivers. 

For the earth he drew a straight line, 
For the sky a bow above it; 

White the space between for day-time, 
Filled with little stars for night-time ; 

On the left a point for sunrise, 

On the right a point for sunset, 

On the top a point for noontide, 

And for rain and cloudy weather 
Waving lines descending from it. 

Footprints pointing towards a wigwam 
Were a sign of invitation, 

Were a sign of guests assembling ; 









334 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Bloody hands with palms uplifted 
Were a symbol of destruction, 

Were a hostile sign and symbol. 

All these things did Hiawatha 
Show unto his wondering people, 

And interpreted their meaning, 

And he said : “ Behold, your grave-posts 
Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. 


Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, 

Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, 
Each inverted as a token 
That the owner was departed, 

That the chief who bore the symbol 
Lay beneath in dust and ashes. 

And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The Wabenos, the Magicians, 



Go and paint them all with figures ; 
Each one with its household symbol, 
With its own ancestral Totem 
So that those who follow after 
May distinguish them and know them.’ 

And they painted on the grave-posts 
On the graves yet unforgotten, 

Each his own ancestral Totem, 

Each the symbol of his household, 


And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Painted upon bark and deer-skin 
Figures for the songs they chanted, 
For each song a separate symbol, 
Figui-es mystical and awful, 

Figures strange and brightly colored; 
And each figure had its meaning, 
Each some magic song suggested. 

The Great Spirit, the Creator, 































HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. 


335 


Flashing light through all the heaven ; 
The Great Serpent, the ‘Kenabeek, 

With his bloody crest erected, 

Creeping, looking into heaven ; 

In the sky the sun, that listens, 

And the moon eclipsed and dying ; 

Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, 

And the cormorant, bird of magic; 
Headless men, that walk the heavens, 
Bodies lying pierced with arrows, 

Bloody hands of death uplifted, 

Flags on graves, and great war-captains 
Grasping both the earth and heaven ! 

Such as these the shapes they painted 
On the birch-bark and the deer-skin ; 
Songs of war and songs of hunting, 

Songs of medicine and of magic, 

All were written in these figures, 

For each figure had its meaning, 

Each its separate song recorded. 

Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, 

The most subtle of all medicines, 

The most potent spell of magic, 
Dangerous more than war or hunting ! 
Thus the Love-Song was recorded, 
Symbol and interpretation. 

First a human figure standing, 

Painted in the brightest scarlet; 

’T is the lover, the musician, 

And the meaning is, “ My painting 
Makes me powerful over others.” 

Then the figure seated, singing, 
Playing on a drum of magic, 

And the interpretation, “ Listen ! 

’T is my voice you hear, my singing ! ” 

Then the same red figure seated 
In the shelter of a wigwam, 

And the meaning of the symbol, 

“ I will come and sit beside you 
In the mystery of my passion ! ” 

Then two figures, man and woman, 
Standing hand in hand together 
With their hands so clasped together 
That they seem in one united, 

And the words thus represented 
Are “I see your heart within you, 

And your cheeks are red with blushes ! ” 

Next the maiden on an island, 

In the centre of an island ; 

And the song this shape suggested 
Was, “ Though you were at a distance, 
Were upon some far-off island, 

Such the spell I cast upon you, 


Such the magic power of passion, 

I could straightway draw you to me ! ” 
Then the figure of the maiden 
Sleeping, and the lover near her, 
Whispering to her in her slumbers, 
Saying, “ Though you were far from me 
In the land of Sleep and Silence, 

Still the voice of love would reach you ! ” 
And the last of all the figures 
Was a heart within a circle, 

Drawn within a magic circle ; 

And the image had this meaning : 

“ Naked lies your heart before me, 

To your naked heart I whisper ! ” 

Thus it was that Hiawatha, 

In his wisdom, taught the people 
All the mysteries of painting, 

All the art of Picture-Writing, 

On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, 

On the white skin of the reindeer, 

On the grave-posts of the village. 

XV. 

HIAWATHA’S LAMENTATION. 

In those days the Evil Spirits, 

All the Manitos of mischief, 

Fearing Hiawatha’s wisdom, 

And his love for Chibiabos, 

Jealous of their faithful friendship, 

And their noble words and actions, 

Made at length a league against them, 

To molest them and destroy them. 

Hiawatha, wise and wary, 

Often said to Chibiabos, 

“ O my brother ! do not leave me, 

Lest the Evil Spirits harm you ! ” 
Chibiabos, young and heedless, 

Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, 
Answered ever sweet and childlike, 

“ Do not fear for me, O brother ! 

Harm and evil coroe not near me ! ” 

Once when Peboan, the Winter, 
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, 
When the snow-flakes, whirling down¬ 
ward, 

Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, 
Changed the pine-trees into wigwams, 
Covered all the earth with silence, — 
Armed with arrows, shod with snow- 
shoes, 

i Bleeding not his brother’s warning, 














33 ^ 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Fearing not the Evil Spirits, 

Forth to hunt the deer with antlers 
All alone went Chibiabos. 

Right across the Big-Sea-Water 
Sprang with speed the deer before 
him. 

With the wind and snow he followed, 


Drowned him in the deep abysses 
Of the lake of Gitche Gurnee. 

From the headlands Hiawatha 
Sent forth such a wail of anguish, 

Such a fearful lamentation, 

That the bison paused to listen, 

And the wolves howled from the prairies, 



O’er the treacherous ice he followed, 
Wild with all the fierce commotion 
And the rapture of the hunting. 

But beneath, the Evil Spirits 
Lay in ambush, waiting for him, 

Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, 
Dragged him downward to the bottom, 
Buried in the sand his body. 

U nktahee, the god of water, 

He the god of the Dacotahs, 


And the thunder in the distance 
Starting answered “ Baim-wawa ! ” 
Then his face with black he painted. 
With his robe his head he covered, 

In his wigwam sat lamenting, 

Seven long weeks he sat lamenting, 
Uttering still this moan of sorrow : — 

“ He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! 

He has gone from us forever, 






















































































HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. 337 


He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music, 

To the Master of all singing ! 

O my brother, Chibiabos ! ” 

And the melancholy fir-trees 
Waved their dark green fans above him, 
Waved their purple cones above him, 
Sighing with him to console him, 
Mingling with his lamentation 
Their complaining, their lamenting. 

Came the Spring, and all the forest 
Looked in vain for Chibiabos ; 

Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, 

Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 

From the tree-tops sang the bluebird, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 

“ Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 

He is dead, the sweet musician ! ” 

From the wigwam sang the robin, 

Sang the robin, the Opechee, 

“ Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 

He is dead, the sweetest singer ! ” 

And at night through all the forest 
Went the whippoorwill complaining, 
Wailing went the Wawonaissa, 

“ Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 

He is dead, the sweet musician ! 

He the sweetest of all singers ! ” 

Then the medicine-men, the Medas, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 

And the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 

Came to visit Hiawatha; 

Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, 

To appease him, to console him, 

Walked in silent, grave procession, 
Bearing each a pouch of healing, 

Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, 

Filled.with magic roots and simples, 
Filled with very potent medicines. 

When he heard their steps approach¬ 
ing, 

Fliawatha ceased lamenting, 

Called no more on Chibiabos ; 

Naught he Questioned, naught he an¬ 
swered, , 

But his mournful head uncovered, 

From his face the mourning colors 
Washed he slowly and in silence, 

Slowly and in silence followed 
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. 

There a magic drink they gave him, 
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint, 
And Wabeno-w’usk, the yarrow, 

22 


Roots of power, and herbs of healing; 
Beat their drums, and shook their rat¬ 
tles ; 

Chanted singly and in chorus, 

Mystic songs like these, they chanted. 

“ I myself, myself! behold me ! 

’T is the great Gray Eagle talking ; 

Come, ye white crows, come and hear 
him ! 

The loud-speaking thunder helps me ; 

All the unseen spirits help me ; 

I can hear their voices calling, 

All around the sky I hear them ! 

I can blow you strong, my brother, 

I can heal you, Hiawatha ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha ! ” replied the chorus, 

“ Way-ha-way ! ” the mystic chorus. 

“ Friends of mine are all the serpents ! 
blear me shake my skin of hen-hawk ! 
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him; 

I can shoot your heart and kill it ! 

I can blow you strong, my brother, 

I can heabyou, Hiawatha ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha ! ” replied the chorus, 

“ Way-ha-way ! ” the mystic chorus. 

“ I myself, myself! the prophet! 

When I speak the wigwam trembles, 
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, 
Hands unseen begin to shake it ! 

When I walk, the sky I tread on 
Bends and makes a noise beneath me ! 

I can blow you strong, my brother ! 

Rise and speak, O Hiawatha ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha ! ” replied the chorus, 

“ Way-ha*way ! ” the mystic chorus. 
Then they shook their medicine- 
pouches 

O’er the head of Hiawatha, 

Danced their medicine-dance around 
him ; 

And upstarting wild and haggard, 

Like a man from dreams awakened, 

He was healed of all his madness. 

As the clouds af€ swept from heaven, 
Straightway from his brain departed 
All his moody melancholy ; 

As the ice is swept from rivers, 
Straightway from his heart departed 
All his sorrow and affliction. 

Then they summoned Chibiabos 
From his grave beneath the waters, 

From the sands of Gitche Gurnee 
Summoned Hiawatha’s brother. 








338 THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 


And so mighty was the magic 
Of that cry and invocation, 

That he heard it as he lay there 
Underneath the Big-Sea-Water ; 

From the sand he rose and listened, 
Heard the music and the singing, 

Came, obedient to the summons, 

To the doorway of the wigwam, 

But to enter they forbade him. 

Through a chink a coal they gave him, 
Through the door a burning fire-brand ; 
Ruler in the Land of Spirits, 

Ruler o’er the dead, they made him, 
Telling him a fire to kindle 
For all those that died thereafter, 
Camp-fires for their night encampments 
On their solitary journey 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 

To the land of the Hereafter. 

From the village of his childhood, 
From the homes of those who knew him, 
Passing silent through the forest, 

Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, 
Slowly vanished Chibiabos ! 

Where he passed, the branches moved 
not, 

Where he trod, the grasses bent not, 

And the fallen leaves of last year 
Made no sound beneath his footsteps. 

Four whole days he journeyed onward 
Down the pathway of the dead men ; 

On the dead-man’s strawberry feasted, 
Crossed the melancholy river, 

On the swinging log he crossed it, 

Came unto the Lake of Silver,' 

In the Stone Canoe was carried 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 

To the land of ghosts and shadows. 

On that journey, moving slowly, 

Many weary spirits saw he, 

Panting under heavy burdens, 

Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows, 
Robes of fur, and pots and kettles, 

And with food that friends had given 
For that solitary journey. 

“ Ay ! why do the living,” said they, 

“ Lay such heavy burdens on us ! 

Better were it to go naked, 

Better were it to go fasting, 

Than to bear such heavy burdens 
On our long and weary journey ! ” 

Forth then issued Hiawatha, 

Wandered eastward, wandered westward, 


Teaching men the use of simples 
And the antidotes for poisons, 

And the cure of all diseases. 

Thus was first made known to mortals 
All the mystery of Medamin, 

All the sacred art of healing. 

XVI. 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He, the handsome Yenadizze, 

Whom the people called the Storm- 
Fool, 

Vexed the village with disturbance : 

You shall hear of all his mischief, 

And his flight from Hiawatha, 

And his wondrous transmigrations, 

And the end of his adventures. 

On the shores of Gitche Gurnee, 

On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 

By the shining Big-Sea-Water 
Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

It was he who in his frenzy 
Whirled these drifting sands together, 

On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 

When, among the guests assembled, 

He so merrily and madly 
Danced at Hiawatha’s wedding, 

Danced the Beggar’s Dance to please 
them. 

Now, in search of new adventures, 
From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came with speed into the village, 

Found the young men all assembled 
In the lodge of old Iagoo, 

Listening to his monstrous stories, 

To his wonderful adventures. 

He was telling them the story 
Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, 

How he made a hole in heaven, 

How he climbed up into heaven, 

And let out the summer-weather, 

The perpetual, pleasant Summer ; 

How the Otter first essayed it; 

How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badgei 
Tried in turn the great achievement, 
From the summit of the mountain 
Smote their fists against the heavens, 
Smote against the sky their foreheads, 
Cracked the sky, but could not break it; 
How the Wolverine, uprising, 







PA U-PUK-KEE WPS. 


339 


Made him ready for the encounter, 

Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, 
Drew his arms back, like a cricket. 

“ Once he leaped,” said old Iagoo, 

“ Once he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Bent the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the waters rise beneath it; 

Twice he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the freshet is at highest ! 

Thrice he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Broke the shattered sky asunder, 

And he disappeared within it, 

And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, 

With a bound went in behind him ! ” 

“ Hark you ! ” shouted Pau-Puk- 
Keewis 

As he entered at the doorway ; 

“ I am tired of all this talking, 

Tired of old Iagoo’s stories, 

Tired of Hiawatha’s wisdom. 

Here is something to amuse you, 

Better than this endless talking.” 

Then from out his pouch of wolf-skin 
Forth he drew, with solemn manner, 

All the game of Bowl and Counters, 
Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 

White on one side were they painted, 
And vermilion on the other ; 

Two Kenabeeks or great serpents. 

Two Ininewug or wedge-men, 

One great war-club, Pugamaugun, 

And one slender fish, the Keego, 

Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, 

And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. 

All were made of bone and painted, 

All except the Ozawabeeks ; 

These were brass, on one side burnished, 
And were black upon the other. 

In a wooden bowl he placed them, 
Shook and jostled them together, 

Threw them on the ground before him. 
Thus exclaiming and explaining : 

“ Red side up are all the pieces, 

And one great Kenabeek standing 
On the bright side of a brass piece, 

On a burnished Ozawabeek : 

Thirteen tens and eight are counted.” 

Then again he shook the pieces, 

Shook and jostled them together, 

Threw them on the ground before him, 
Still exclaiming and explaining : 

“ White are both the great Kenabeeks, 


White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 

Red are all the other pieces ; 

Five tens and an eight are counted.” 

Thus he taught the game of hazard, 
Thus displayed it and explained it, 
Running through its various chances, 
Various changes, various meanings : 
Twenty curious eyes stared at him, 

Full of eagerness stared at him. 

“ Many games,” said old Iagoo, 

“ Many games of skill and hazard 
Have I seen in different nations, 

Have I played in different countries. 

He who plays with old Iagoo 
Must have very nimble fingers ; 

Though you think yourself so skilful, 

I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

I can even give you lessons 
In your game of Bowl and Counters ! ” 
So they sat and played together, 

All the old men and the young men, 
Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, 
Played till midnight, played till morning. 
Played until the Yenadizze, 

Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Of their treasures had despoiled them, 

Of the best of all their dresses, 

Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, 

Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, 
Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. 
Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, 

Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 

Said the Lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis : 

“ In my wigwam I am lonely, 

In my wanderings and adventures 
I have need of a companion, 

Fain would have a Meshinauwa, 

An attendant and pipe-bearer. 

I will venture all these winnings, 

All these garments heaped about me, 

All this wampum, all these feathers, 

On a single throw will venture 
All against the young man yonder ! ” 

’T was a youth of sixteen summers, 

’T was a nephew of Iagoo ; 
Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. 

As the fire burns in a pipe-head 
Dusky red beneath the ashes, 

So beneath his shaggy eyebrows 
Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo. 

“Ugh ! ” he answered very fiercely ; 

“ Ugh ! ” they answered all and each 
one. 










340 


THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 


Seized the wooden bowl the old man, 
Closely in his bony fingers 
Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, 
Shook it fiercely and with fury, 

Made the pieces ring together 
As he threw them down before him. 

Red were both the great Kenabeeks, 
Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 


Red and white the other pieces, 

And upright among the others 
One Ininewug was standing, 

Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood alone among the players, 

Saying, “ Five tens ! mine the game is ! ” 
Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, 



Red the Seshebwug, the ducklings, 
Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, 
White alone the fish, the Keego; 

Only five the pieces counted ! 

Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook the bowl and threw the pieces ; 
Lightly in the air he tossed them, 

And they fell about him scattered ; 
Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, 


As he turned and left the wigwam, 
Followed by his Meshinauwa, 

By the nephew of Iagoo, 

By the tall and graceful stripling. 
Bearing in his arms the winnings, 

Shirts of deer-slcin, robes of ermine, 
Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. 

“ Carry them,” said Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing with his fan of feathers, 



















THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 


341 


“To my wigwam far to eastward, 

On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo ! ” 

Hot and red with smoke and gambling 
Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As he came forth to the freshness 
Of the pleasant Summer morning. 

All the birds were singing gayly, 

All the streamlets flowing swiftly, 

And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, 

Beat with triumph like the streamlets, 

As he wandered through the village, 

In the early gray of morning, 

With his fan of turkey-feathers, 

With his plumes and tufts of swan’s 
down, 

Till he reached the farthest wigwam, 
Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. 

Silent was it and deserted ; 

No one met him at the doorway, 

No one came to bid him welcome; 

But the birds were singing round it, 

In and out and round the doorway, 
Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, 

And aloft upon the ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 

Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, 
Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

“ All are gone ! the lodge is empty ! ” 
Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

In his heart resolving mischief ; — 

“ Gone is wary Hiawatha, 

Gone the silly Laughing Water, 

Gone Nokomis, the old woman, 

And the lodge is left unguarded ! ” 

By the neck he seized the raven, 
Whirled it round him like a rattle, 

Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, 
Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, 

From the ridge-pole of the wigwam 
Left its lifeless body hanging, 

As an insult to its master, 

As a taunt to Hiawatha. 

With a stealthy step he entered, 

Round the lodge in wild disorder 
Threw the household things about him, 
Piled together in confusion 
Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, 

Robes of buffalo and beaver, 

Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, 

As an insult to Nokomis, 

As a taunt to Minnehaha. 

Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Whistling, singing through the forest, 
Whistling gayly to the squirrels, ■ 

Who from hollow boughs above him 
Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, 
Singing gayly to the wood-birds, 

Who from out the leafy darkness 
Answered with a song as merry. 

Then he climbed the rocky headlands, 
Looking o’er the Gitche Gurnee, 

Perched himself upon their summit, 
Waiting full of mirth and mischief 
The return of Hiawatha. 

Stretched upon his back he lay there ; 
Far below him plashed the waters, 
Plashed and washed the dreamy waters ; 
Far above him swam the heavens, 

Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens ; 

Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, 
Pliawatha’s mountain chickens, 
Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, 
Almost brushed him with their pinions. 

And he killed them as he lay there, 
Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, 
Threw their bodies down the headland, 
Threw them on the beach below him, 

Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, 
Perched upon a crag above them, 

Shouted : “ It is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 

He is slaying us by hundreds ! 

Send a message to our brother, 

Tidings send to Hiawatha ! ” 

XVII. 

THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

Full of wrath was Hiawatha 
When he came into the village, 

Found the people in confusion, 

Heard of all the misdemeanors, 

All the malice and the mischief, 

Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard his breath came through his 
nostrils, 

Through his teeth he buzzed and mut¬ 
tered 

Words of anger and resentment, 

Hot and humming, like a hornet. 

“ I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Slay this mischief-maker ! ” said he. 

“ Not so long and wide the world is, 

Not so rude and rough the way is, 

That my wrath shall not attain him, 













342 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


That my vengeance shall not reach 
him ! ” 

Then in swift pursuit departed 
Hiawatha and the hunters 
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Through the forest, where he passed it, 
To the headlands where he rested ; 

But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Only in the trampled grasses, 

In the whortleberry-bushes, 

Found the couch where he had rested, 
Found the impress of his body. 

From the lowlands far beneath them, 
From the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, 
Made a gesture of defiance, 

Made a gesture of derision ; 

And aloud cried Hiawatha, 

From the summit of the mountain : 

“ Not so long and wide the world is, 

Not so rude and rough the way is, 

But my wrath shall overtake you, 

And my vengeance shall attain you ! ” 

Over rock and over river, 

Thorough bush, and brake, and forest, 
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 

Like an antelope he bounded, 

Till he came unto a streamlet 
In the middle of the forest, 

To a streamlet still and tranquil, 

That had overflowed its margin, 

To a dam made by the beavers, 

To a pond of quiet water, 

Where knee-deep the trees were stand¬ 
ing, 

Where the water-lilies floated, 

Where the rushes waved and whispered. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

On the dam of trunks and branches, 
Through whose chinks the water spouted, 
O’er whose summit flowed the streamlet. 
From the bottom rose a beaver, 

Looked with two great eyes of wonder, 
Eyes that seemed to ask a question, 

At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Flowed the bright and silvery water, 

And he spake unto the beaver, 

With a smile he spake in this wise : 

“ O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, 
Cool and pleasant is the water; 

Let me dive into the water, 


Let me rest there in your lodges ; 

Change me, too, into a beaver ! ” 
Cautiously replied the beaver, 

With reserve he thus made answer : 

“ Let me first consult the others, 

Let me ask the other beavers.” 

. Down he sank into the water, 

Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, 

Down among the leaves and branches, 
Brown and matted at the bottom. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Spouted through the chinks below him, 
Dashed upon the stones beneath him, 
Spread serene and calm before him, 

And the sunshine and the shadows 
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, 

Fell in little shining patches, 

Through the waving, rustling branches. 

From the bottom rose the beavers, 
Silently above the surface 
Rose one head and then anothei', 

Till the pond seemed full of beavers, 

Full of black and shining faces. 

To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake entreating, said in this wise : 

“ Very pleasant is your dwelling, 

O my friends ! and safe from danger ; 
Can you not with all your cunning, 

All your wisdom and contrivance, 

Change me, too, into a beaver ? ” 

“Yes ! ” replied Ahmeek, the beaver, 
He the King of all the beavers, 

“ Let yourself slide down among us, 
Down into the tranquil water.” 

Down into the pond among them 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 

Black became his shirt of deer-skin, 

Black his moccasins and leggings, 

In a broad black tail behind him 
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes ; 

He was changed into a beaver. 

“ Make me large,” said Pau-Puk- 
Keewis, 

“ Make me large and make me larger, 
Larger than the other beavers.” 

“ Yes,” the beaver chief responded, 

“ When our lodge below you enter, 

In our wigwam we will make you 
Ten times larger than the others.” 

Thus into the clear, brown water 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 

Found the bottom covered over 








THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 


343 


With the trunks of trees and branches, 
Hoards of food against the winter, 

Piles and heaps against the famine, 
Found the lodge with arching doorway, 
Leading into spacious chambers. 

Here they made him large and larger, 
Made him largest of the beavers, 

Ten times larger than the others. 


Then they heard a cry above them, 
Heard a shouting and a tramping, 
Heard a crashing and a rushing, 

And the water round and o’er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies, 

And they knew their dam was broken. 

On the lodge’s roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 



You shall be our ruler,” said they ; 
“ Chief and king of all the beavers.” 

But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat in state among the beavers, 
When there came a voice of warning 
.From the watchman at his station 
In the water-flags and lilies, 

Saying, “ Here is Hiawatha ! 
Hiawatha with his hunters ! ” 


I Streamed the sunshine through the 
crevice, 

Sprang the beavers through the doorway, 
Hid themselves in deeper water, 

In the channel of the streamlet; 

But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could not pass beneath the doorway ; 

Pie was puffed with pride and feeding, 

Pie was swollen like a bladder. 














































344 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Through the roof looked Hiawatha, 
Cried aloud, “ O Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 

Vain are all your craft and cunning, 

Vain your manifold disguises ! 

Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis ! ” 
With their clubs they beat and bruised 
him, 

Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded him as maize is pounded, 

Till his skull was crushed to pieces. 

Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, 

Bore h.im home on poles and branches, 
Bore the body of the beaver ; 

But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, 

Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And it fluttered, strove, and struggled, 
Waving hither, waving thither, 

As the curtains of a wigwam 
Struggle with their thongs of deer¬ 
skin, 

When the wintry wind is blowing; 

Till it drew itself together, 

Till it rose up from the body, 

Till it took the form and features 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing into the forest. 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Saw the figure ere it vanished, 

Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide into the soft blue shadow 
Of the pine-trees of the forest; 

Toward the squares of white beyond it, 
Toward an opening in the forest, 

Like a wind it rushed and panted, 
Bending all the boughs before it, 

And behind it, as the rain comes, 

Came the steps of Hiawatha. 

To a lake with many islands 
Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where among the water-lilies 
Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing ; 
Through the tufts of rushes floating, 
Steering through the reedy islands. 

Now their broad black beaks they lifted, 
Now they plunged beneath the water, 
Now they darkened in the shadow, 

Now they brightened in the sunshine. 

“ Pishnekuh ! ” cried Pau-Puk-Kee¬ 
wis, 

“ Pishnekuh ! my brothers ! ” said he, 

“ Change me to a brant with plumage, 
With a shining neck and feathers, 


Make me large, and make me larger, 

Ten times larger than the others.” 

Straightway to a brant they changed 
him, 

With two huge and dusky pinions, 

With a bosom smooth and rounded, 

With a bill like two great paddles, 

Made him larger than the others, 

Ten times larger than the largest, 

Just as, shouting from the forest, 

On the'shore stood Hiawatha. 

Up they rose with cry and clamor, 
With a whir and beat of pinions, 

Rose up from the reedy islands, 

From the water-flags and lilies. 

And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis : 

“ In your flying, look not downward, 

Take good heed, and look not downward, 
Lest some strange mischance should 
happen, 

Lest some great mishap befall you ! ” 
Fast and far they fled to northward, 
Fast and far through mist and sunshine, 
Fed among the moors and fen-lands, 
Slept among the reeds and rushes. 

On the morrow as they journeyed, 
Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, 
Wafted onward by the South-wind, 
Blowing fresh and strong behind them, 
Rose a sound of human voices, 

Rose a clamor from beneath them, 

From the lodges of a village, 

From Jhe people miles beneath them. 

For the people of the village 
Saw the flock of brant with wonder, 

Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping far up in the ether, 

Broader than two doorway curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, 
Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 

Knew the outcry of Iagoo, 

And, forgetful of the warning, 

Drew his neck in, and looked downward, 
And the wind that blew behind him 
Caught his mighty fan of feathers, 

Sent him wheeling, whirling downward ! 

All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle to regain his balance ! 

Whirling round and round and down¬ 
ward, 

He beheld in turn the village 
And in turn the flock above him 
Saw the village coming nearer, 






THE HUNTING OF PA U-PUK-KEEWIS. 345 


And the flock receding farther, 

Heard the voices growing louder, 

Heard the shouting and the laughter ; 
Saw no more the flock above him, 

Only saw the earth beneath him ; 

Dead out of the empty heaven, 

Dead among the shouting people, 

With a heavy sound and sullen, 

Fell the brant with broken pinions. 

But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Still survived as Pau-puk-Keewis, 

Took again the form and features 
Of the handsome Yenadizze, 

And again went rushing onward, 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 

Crying : “ Not so wide the world is, 

Not so long and rough the way is, 

But my wrath shall overtake you, 

But my vengeance shall attain you ! ” 

And so near he came, so near him, 
That his hand was stretched to seize him, 
His right hand to seize and hold him, 
When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled and spun about in circles, 
Fanned the air into a whirlwind, 

Danced the dust and leaves about him, 
And amid the whirling eddies 
Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, 

Changed himself into a serpent, 

Gliding out through root and rubbish. 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, 

Rent it into shreds and splinters, 

Left it lying there in fragments. 

But in vain ; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Once again in human figure, 

Full in sight ran on before him, 

Sped away in gust and whirlwind, 

On the shores of Gitche Gurnee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, 

Came unto the rocky headlands, 

To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, 
Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Mountain, 

He the Manito of Mountains, 

Opened wide his rocky doorways, 
Opened wide his deep abysses, 

Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter 
In his caverns dark and dreary, 

Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 

There without stood Hiawatha, 

Found the doorways closed against him, 


With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 

Smote great caverns in the sandstone, 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 

“ Open ! I am Hiawatha ! ” 

But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sandstone, 

From the gloomy rock abysses. 

Then he raised his hands to heaven, 
Called imploring on the tempest, 

Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 

And the thunder, Annemeekee ; 

And they came with night and darkness, 
Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water 
From the distant Thunder Mountains ; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 

Saw the red eyes of the lightning, 

Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. 

Then Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Smote the doorways of the caverns, 

With his war-club smote the doorways, 
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee, 

Shouted down into the caverns, 

Saying, “ Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! ” 
And the crags fell, and beneath them 
Dead among the rocky ruins 
Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 

Slain in his own human figure. 

Ended were his wild adventures, 
Ended were his tricks and gambols, 
Ended all his craft and cunning, 

Ended all his mischief-making, 

All his gambling and his dancing, 

All his wooing of the maidens. 

Then the noble Hiawatha 
Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Spake and said : “ O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Nevermore in human figure 
Shall you search for new adventures ; 
Nevermore with jest and laughter 
Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds 
But above there in the heavens 
You shall soar and sail in circles; 

I will change you to an eagle, 

To Keneu, the great war-eagle, 

Chief of all the fowls with feathers, 
Chief of Hiawatha’s chickens.” 

And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers still among the people, 

Lingers still among the singers, 






346 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


And among the story-tellers ; 

And in Winter, when the snow-flakes 
Whirl in eddies round the lodges, 

When the wind in gusty tumult 
O’er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, 

“ There,” they cry, “ comes Pau-Puk- 
Keewis ; 

He is dancing through the village, 

He is gathering in his harvest! ” 

XVIII. 

THE DEATH OF KWASIND. 

Far and wide among the nations 
Spread the name and fame of Kwasind; 
No man dared to strive with Kwasind, 

No man could compete with Kwasind, 
But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, 

They the envious Little People, 

They the fairies and the pygmies, 

Plotted and conspired against him. 

“ If this hateful Kwasind,” said they, 

“ If this great, outrageous fellow 
Goes on thus a little longer, 

Tearing everything he touches, 

Rending everything to pieces, 

Filling all the world with wonder, 

What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies? 
Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies ? 

He will tread us down like mushrooms, 
Drive us all into the water, 

Give our bodies to be eaten 
By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 

By the Spirits of the water ! ” 

So the angry Little People 
All conspired against the Strong Man, 

All conspired to murder Kwasind, 

Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, 

The audacious, overbearing, 

Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind ! 
Now this wondrous strength of Kwa¬ 
sind 

In his crown alone was seated; 

In his crown too was his weakness ; 

There alone could he be wounded, 
Nowhere else could weapon pierce him, 
Nowhere else could weapon harm him. 

Even there the only weapon 
That could wound him, that could slay 
him, 

Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, 

Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. 


This was Kwasind’s fatal secret, 

Known to no man among mortals ; 

But the cunning Little People, 

The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret, 
Knew the only way to kill him. 

So they gathered cones together, 
Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, 
Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, 

In the woods by Taquamenaw, 

Brought them to the river’s margin, 
Heaped them in great piles together, 
Where the red rocks from the mar¬ 
gin 

Jutting overhang the river. 

There they lay in wait for Kwasind, 

The malicious Little People. 

’T was an afternoon in Summer ; 

Very hot and still the air was, 

Very smooth the gliding river, 

Motionless the sleeping shadows : 

Insects glistened in the sunshine, 

Insects skated on the water, 

Filled the drowsy air with buzzing, 

With a far-resounding war-cry. 

Down the river came the Strong Man, 
In his birch-canoe came Kwasind, 
Floating slowly down the current 
Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, 

Very languid with the weather, 

Very sleepy with the silence. 

From the overhanging branches, 

From the tassels of the birch-trees, 

Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended ; 

By his airy hosts surrounded, 

His invisible attendants, 

Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin ; 
Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like a dragon-fly, he hovered 
O’er the drowsy head of Kwasind. 

To his ear there came a murmur 
As of waves upon a sea-shore, 

As of far-off tumbling waters, 

As of winds among the pine-trees ; 

And he felt upon his forehead 
Blows of little airy war-clubs, 

Wielded by the slumbrous legions 
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 

As of some one breathing on him. 

At the first blow of their war-clubs 
Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind ; 

At the second blow they smote him, 
Motionless his paddle rested ; 

At the third, before his vision 







THE GHOSTS. 


347 


Reeled the landscape into darkness, 
Very sound asleep was Kwasind. 

So he floated down the river, 

Like a blind man seated upright, 


Drifted empty down the river, 

Bottom upward swerved and drifted : 
Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. 
But the memory of the Strong Man 



Floated down the Taquamenaw, 
Underneath the trembling birch-trees, 
Underneath the wooded headlands, 
Underneath the war encampment 
Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies. 

There they stood, all armed and wait¬ 
ing, 

Hurled the pine-cones down upon him, 
Struck him on his brawny shoulders, 

On his crown defenceless struck him. 

Death to Kwasind ! ” was the sudden 
War-cry of the Little People. 

And he sideways swayed and tumbled, 
Sideways fell into the river, 

Plunged beneath the sluggish water 
Headlong, as an otter plunges ; 

And the birch-canoe, abandoned, 


Lingered long among the people, 

And whenever through the forest 
Raged and roared the wintry tempest, 
And the branches, tossed and troubled, 
Creaked and groaned and split asunder, 

“ Kwasind ! ” cried they ; “ that is Kwa¬ 
sind ! 

He is gathering in his fire-wood ! ” 

XIX. 

THE GHOSTS. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture 
On his quarry in the desert, 

On the sick or wounded bison, 
i But another vulture, watching 







































































34 $ 


THE SONG OF IIIAW.A TilA 


From his high aerial look-out, 

Sees the downward plunge, and fol¬ 
lows ; 

And a third pursues the second, 

Coming from the invisible ether, 

First a speck, and then a vulture, 

Till the air is dark with pinions. 

So disasters come not singly ; 

But as if they watched and waited, 


Till the plains were strewn with white 
ness, 

One uninterrupted level, 

As if, stooping, the Creator 

With his hand had smoothed them over. 

Through the forest, wide and wailing, 
Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes ; 
In the village worked the women, 
Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin 



Scanning one another’s motions. 

When the first descends, the others 
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise 
Round their victim, sick and wounded, 
First a shadow, then a sorrow, 

Till the air is dark with anguish. 

Now, o’er all the dreary Northland, 
Mighty Peboan, the Winter, 

Breathing on the lakes and rivers, 

Into stone had changed their waters. 
From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, 


And the young men played together 
On the ice the noisy ball-play, 

On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. 

One dark evening, after sundown, 

In her wigwam Laughing Water 
Sat with old Nokomis, waiting 
For the steps of Hiawatha 
Homeward from the hunt returning. 

On their faces gleamed the fire-light, 
Painting them with streaks of crimson, 
In the eyes of old Nokomis 



































































THE GHOSTS. 349 

Glimmered like the watery moonlight, 

In the eyes of Laughing Water 

Glistened like the sun in water ; 

And behind them crouched their shadows 
In the corners of the wigwam, 

And the smoke in wreaths above them 
Climbed and crowded through the smoke- 
flue. * 

Then the curtain of the doorway 

From without was slowly lifted ; 

Brighter glowed the fire a moment, 

And a moment swerved the smoke- 
wreath, 

As two women entered softly, 

Passed the doorway uninvited, 

Without word of salutation, 

Without sign of recognition, 

Sat down in the farthest corner, 

Crouching low among the shadows. 

From their aspect and their garments, 
Strangers seemed they in the village ; 

Very pale and haggard were they, 

As they sat there sad and silent, 

Trembling, cowering with the shadows. 

Was it the wind above the smoke-flue, 
Muttering down into the wigwam ? 

Was it the owl, the Ivoko-koho, 

Hooting from the dismal forest ? 

Sure a voice said in the silence : 

“ These are corpses clad in garments, 

These are ghosts that come to haunt you, 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 

From the land of the Hereafter ! ” 
Homeward now came Hiawatha 

From his hunting in the forest, 

With the snow upon his tresses, 

And the red deer on his shoulders. 

At the feet of Laughing Water 

Down he threw his lifeless burden ; 

Nobler, handsomer she thought him, 

Than when first he came to woo her, 

First threw down the deer before her, 

As a token of his wishes, 

As a promise of the future. 

Then he turned and saw the strangers, 
Cowering, crouching with the shadows ; 
Said within himself, “ Who are they ? 

What strange guests has Minnehaha ? ” 

But he questioned not the strangers, 

Only spake to bid them welcome 

To his lodge, his food, his fireside. 

When the evening meal was ready, 

And the deer had been divided, 

Both the pallid guests, the strangers, 

Springing from among the shadows, 

Seized upon the choicest portions, 

Seized the white fat of the roebuck, 

Set apart for Laughing Water, 

For the wife of Hiawatha; 

Without asking, without thanking, 

Eagerly devoured the morsels, 

Flitted back among the shadows 

In the corner of the wigwam. 

Not a word spake Hiawatha, 

Not a motion made Nokomis, 

Not a gesture Laughing Water ; 

Not a change came o’er their features ; 

Only Minnehaha softly 

Whispered, saying, “ They are famished ; 

Let them do what best delights them ; 

Let them eat, for they are famished.” 

Many a daylight dawned and darkened, 

Many a night shook off the daylight 

As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes 

From the midnight of its branches ; 

Day by day the guests unmoving 

Sat there silent in the wigwam ; 

But by night, in storm or starlight, 

Forth they went into the forest, 

Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, 

Bringing pine-cones for the burning, 

Always sad and always silent. 

And whenever Hiawatha 

Came from fishing or from hunting, 

When the evening meal was ready, 

And the food had been divided, 

Gliding from their darksome corner, 

Came the pallid guests, the strangers, 

Seized upon the choicest portions 

Set aside for Laughing Water, 

And without rebuke or question 

Flitted back among the shadows. 

Never once had Hiawatha 

By a word or look reproved them ; 

Nevef once had old Nokomis 

Made a gesture of impatience ; 

Never once had Laughing Water 

Shown resentment at the outrage. 

All had they endured in silence, 

That the rights of guest and stranger, 

That the virtue of free-giving, 

By a look might not be lessened, 

By a word might not be broken. 

Once at midnight Hiawatha, 

Ever wakeful, ever watchful, 

In the wigwam, dimly lighted 









35 ° THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


By the brands that still were burning, 

By the glimmering, flickering fire-light, 
Heard a sighing, oft repeated, 

Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. 

From his couch rose Hiawatha, 

From his shaggy hides of bison, 

Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, 

Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, 
Sitting upright on their couches, 

Weeping in the silent midnight. 

And he said : “ O guests ! why is it 
That your hearts are so afflicted, 

That you sob so in the midnight ? 

Has perchance the old Nokomis, 

FI as my wife, my Minnehaha, 

Wronged or grieved you by unkindness, 
Failed in hospitable duties ? ” 

Then the shadows ceased from weeping, 
Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, 

And they said, with gentle voices : 

“ We are ghosts of the departed, 

Souls of those who once were with you. 
From the realms of Chibiabos 
Hither have we come to try you, 

Hither have we come to warn you. 

“ Cries of grief and lamentation 
Reach us in the blessed Islands ; 

Cries of anguish from the living, 

Calling back their friends departed, 
Sadden us with useless sorrow. 

Therefore have we come to try you : 

No one knows us, no one heeds us. 

We are but a burden to you, 

And we see that the departed 
Have no place among the living. 

“ Think of this, O Hiawatha ! 

Speak of it to all the people, 

That henceforward and forever 
They no more with lamentations 
Sadden the souls of the departed 
In the Islands of the Blessed. 

“ Do not lay such heavy burdens 
In the graves of those you bury, 

Not such weight of furs and wampum, 

Not such weight of pots and kettles, 

For the spirits faint beneath them. 

Only give them food to carry, 

Only give them fire to light them. 

“ Four days is the spirit’s journey 
To the land of ghosts and shadows, 

Four its lonely night encampments ; 

Four times must their fires be lighted. 
Therefore, when the dead are buried, 


Let a fire, as night approaches, 

Four times on the grave be kindled, 

That the soul upon its journey 
May not lack the cheerful fire-light, 

May not grope about in darkness. 

“ Farewell, noble Hiawatha ! 

We have put you to the trial, 

To the proof have put your patience, 

By the insult of our presence, 

By the outrage of our actions. 

We have found you great and noble. 

Fail not in the greater trial, 

Faint not in the harder struggle.” 

When they ceased, a sudden darkness 
Fell and filled the silent wigwam. 
Hiawatha heard a rustle 
As of garments trailing by him, 

Heard the curtain of the doorway 
Lifted by a hand he saw not, 

Felt the cold breath of the night-air. 

For a moment saw the starlight ; 

But he saw the ghosts no longer, 

Saw no more the wandering spirits 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 

From the land of the Hereafter. 

XX. 

THE FAMINE. 

O the long and dreary Winter ! 

O the cold and cruel Winter ! 

Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river, 

Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 

Fell the snow o’er all the landscape, 

Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 

With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest, 
Sought for bird or beast and found none,. 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 

In the snow beheld no footprints, 

In the ghastly, gleaming forest 

Fell, and could not rise from weakness. 

Perished there from cold and hunger. 

O the famine and the fever ! 

O the wasting of the famine ! 

O the blasting of the fever ! 

O the wailing of the children ! 

O the anguish of the women ! 









THE FAMINE. 


351 


All the earth was sick and famished ; 
Hungry was the air around them, 

Hungry was the sky above them, 

And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 

Into Hiawatha’s wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
Waited not to be invited, 

Did not parley at the doorway, 

Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water ; 

Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : “ Behold me ! 

I am Famine, Bukadawin ! ” 

And the other said : “ Behold me ! 

I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! ” 

And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her, 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 

Lay down on her bed in silence, 

Hid her face, but made no answer ; 

Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks they cast upon her, 

At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha ; 

In his heart was deadly sorrow, 

In his face a stony firmness ; 

On his brow the sweat of anguish, 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunt¬ 
ing, 

With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 

With his quiver full of arrows, 

With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 

Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 

“ Gitche Manito the Mighty ! ” 

Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 

“ Give your children food, O father ! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 

Give me food for Minnehaha, 

For my dying Minnehaha ! ” 

Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation, 

But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 

Than the echo of the woodlands, 

“ Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! ” 


All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest, 

Through the shadow of whose thickets, 

In the pleasant days of Summer, 

Of that ne’er forgotten Summer, 

He had brought his young wife home¬ 
ward 

From the land of the Dacotahs ; 

When the birds sang in the thickets, 

And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 

“ I will follow you, my husband ! ” 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 

With those gloomy guests, that watched 
her, 

With the Famine and the Fever, 

She was lying, the Beloved, 

She the dying Minnehaha. 

“ Hark ! ” she said : “ I hear a rush¬ 
ing, 

Hear a roaring and a rushing, 

Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! ” 

“ No, my child ! ” said old Nokomis, 

“ ’T is the night-wind in the pine-trees ! ” 
“ Look ! ” she said ; “ I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! ” 

“No, my child ! ” said old Nokomis, 

“ ’T is the smoke, that waves and beck¬ 
ons ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” she said, “ the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 

I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! ” 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 

Far away amid the forest, 

Miles away among the mountains, 

Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 

Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 

“ Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! ” 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 

Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : 

“ Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 

Would that I had perished for you, 













35 2 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! ” 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 

Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 

Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 

And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 

That the forest moaned and shuddered, 


Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha ; 

In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 



That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 
Then he sat down, still and speech¬ 
less, 

On the bed of Minnehaha, 

At the feet of Laughing Water, 

At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Nevermore would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 


s 

And at night a fire was lighted, 

On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 

From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 

Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 

From the bed of Minnehaha, 

Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 






















THE WHITE 


“ Farewell ! ” said he, “ Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 

All my heart is buried with you, 

All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor, 

Come not back again to suffer, 

Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 

Soon my task will be completed, 

Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 

To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 

To the Land of the Hereafter ! ” 

XXL 

THE WHITE MAN’S FOOT. 

In his lodge beside a river, 

Close beside a frozen river, 

Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 

White his hair was as a snow-drift; 

Dull and low his fire was burning, 

And-the old man shook and trembled, 
Folded in his Waubewyon, 

In his tattered white-skin wrapper, 
Hearing nothing but the tempest 
As it roared along the forest, 

Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 

As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 

All the coals were white with ashes, 
And the fire was slowly dying, 

As a young man, walking lightly, 

At the open doorway entered. 

Red with blood of youth his cheeks 
were, 

Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 
Bound his forehead was with grasses, 
Bound and plumed with scented grasses ; 
On his lips a smile of beauty, 

Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 

In his hand a bunch of blossoms 
Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 

“ Ah, my son ! ” exclaimed the old 
man, 

“ Happy are my eyes to see you. 

Sit here on the mat beside me, 

Sit here by the dying embers, 

Let us pass the night together. 

Tell me of your strange adventures, 

Of the lands where you have travelled ; 

I will tell you of my prowess, 

Of my many deeds of wonder.” 

23 


MAJV'S TOOT. 353 


From his pouch he drew his peace- 
pipe, 

Very old and strangely fashioned ; 

Made of red stone was the pipe-head, 
And the stem a reed with feathers ; 

Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
Placed a burning coal upon it, 

Gave it to his guest, the stranger, 

And began to speak in this wise : 

“ When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Motionless are all the rivers, 

Plarcl as stone becomes the water ! ” 

And the young man answered, smil¬ 
ing: 

“ When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Flowers spring up o’er all the meadows, 
Singing, onward rush the rivers ! ” 

“ When I shake my hoary tresses,” 
Said the old man darkly frowning, 

“ All the land with snow is covered ; 

All the leaves from all the branches 
Fall and fade and die and wither, 

For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 

From the waters and the marshes 
Rise the wild-goose and the heron, 

Fly away to distant regions, 

For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 

And where’er my footsteps wander, 

All the wild beasts of the forest 
Hide themselves in holes and caverns, 
And the earth becomes as flintstone ! ” 

“ When I shake my flowing ringlets,” 
Said the young man, softly laughing, 

“ Showers of rain fall warm and wel¬ 
come, 

Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, 

Back unto their lakes and marshes 
Come the wild-goose and the heron, 

, Homeward shoots the arrowy swal¬ 
low, 

Sing the bluebird and the robin, 

And where’er my footsteps wander, 

All the meadows wave with blossoms, 

All the woodlands ring with music, 

All the trees are dark with foliage ! ” 
While they spake, the night departed : 
From the distant realms of Wabun, 

From his shining lodge of silver, 

Like a warrior robed and painted, 

Came the sun, and said, “ Behold me ! 
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me ! ” 








354 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Then the old man’s tongue was 
speechless 

And the air grew warm and pleasant, 
And upon the wigwam sweetly 
Sang the bluebird and the robin, 

And the stream began to murmur, 

And a scent of growing grasses 
Through the lodge was gently wafted. 

And Segwun, the youthful stranger 
More distinctly in the daylight 
Saw the icy face before him ; 

It was Peboan, the Winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flowing, 
As from melting lakes the streamlets, 
And his body shrunk and dwindled 
As the shouting sun ascended, 

Till into the air it faded, 

Till into the ground it vanished; 

And the young man saw before him, 

On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, 
Where the fire had smoked and smoul¬ 
dered, 

Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, 
Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, 

Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the North-land 
After that unheard-of coldness, 

That intolerable Winter, 

Came the Spring with all its splendor, 

All its birds and all its blossoms, 

All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 

Sailing on the wind to northward, 
Flying in great flocks, like arrows, 

Like huge arrows shot through heaven, 
Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking almost as a man speaks ; 

And in long lines waving, bending 
Like a bow-string snapped asunder, 

Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa; 
And in pairs, or singly flying, 

Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, 

On the summit of the lodges 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 

In the covert of the pine-trees 
Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee, 

And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 

Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 

Heard their voices calling to him, 

Went forth from his gloomy doorway, 


Stood and gazed into the heaven, 

Gazed upon the earth and waters. 

From his wanderings far to eastward, 
From the regions of the morning, 

From the shining land of Wabun, 
Plomeward now returned Iagoo, 

The great traveller, the great boaster, 
Full of new and strange adventures, 
Marvels many and many wonders. 

And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures, 

Laughing answered him in this wise : 

“ Ugh ! it is indeed Iagoo ! 

No one else beholds such wonders ! ” 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, 

Broader than the Gitche Gurnee, 

Bitter so that none could drink it! 

At each other looked the warriors, 
Looked the women at each other, 

Smiled, and said, “ It cannot be so ! 

Kaw ! ” they said, “ it cannot be so ! ” 
O’er it, said he, o’er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 

A canoe with wings came flying, 

Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, 

Taller than the tallest tree-tops ! 

And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other ; 

“ Kaw ! ” they said, “ we don’t believe 
it ! ” 

From its mouth, he said, to greet him, 
Came Waywassimo, the lightning, 

Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 

And the warriors and the women 
Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo ; 

“ Kaw ! ” they said, “what tales you tell 
us ! ” 

In it, said he, came a people, 

In the great canoe with pinions 
Came, he said, a hundred warriors; 
Painted white were all their faces, 

And with hair their chins were covered ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed and shouted in derision, 

Like the ravens on the tree-tops, 

Like the crows upon the hemlocks. 

“ Kaw ! ” they said, “ what lies you tell 
us ! 

Do not think that we believe them ! ” 
Only Hiawatha laughed not, 

But he gravely spake and answered 















THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT. 


355 


To their jeering and their jesting : 
“ True is all Iagoo tells us ; 

I have seen it in a vision, 

Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
Seen the people with white faces, 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun. 


Hail them as our friends and brothers, 
And the heart’s right hand of friendship 
Give them when they come to see us. 
Gitche Manito the Mighty, 

Said this to me in my vision. 

“ I beheld, too, in that vision 
All the secrets of the future, 

Of the distant days that shall be. 

I beheld the westward marches 



“ Gitche Manito the Mighty, 

The Great Spirit, the Creator, 

Sends them hither on his errand, 

Sends them to us with his message. 
Wheresoe’er they move, before them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker ; 
Wheresoe’er they tread, beneath them 
Springs a flower unknown among us, 
Springs the White-man’s Foot in blos¬ 
som. 

“ Let us welcome, then, the strangers, 


Of the unknown, crowded nations. 

All the land was full of people, 

Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, 
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 

In the woodlands rang their axes, 
Smoked their towns in all the valleys, 
Over all the lakes and rivers 
Rushed their great canoes of thunder. 

“ Then a darker, drearier vision 
Passed before me, vague and cloud-like 
I beheld our nation scattered, 






























35 6 


THE SONG OF IIIAWATIIA. 


All forgetful of my counsels, 

Weakened, warring with each other ; 
Saw the remnants of our people 
Sweeping westward, wild and woful, 

Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 

Like the withered leaves of Autumn ! ” 

XXII. 

HIAWATHA’S DEPARTURE. 

By the shore of Gitche Gurnee, 

By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

At the doorway of his wigwam, 

In the pleasant Summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 

All the air was full of freshness, 

All the earth was bright and joyous, 

And before him, through the sunshine, 
Westward toward the neighboring forest 
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 
Passed the bees, the honey-makers, 
Burning, singing in the sunshine. 

Bright above him shone the heavens, 
Level spread the lake before him ; 

From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, 
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine ; 

On its margin the great forest 
Stood reflected in the water, 

Every tree-top had its shadow, 

Motionless beneath the water. 

From the brow of Hiawatha 
Gone was every trace of sorrow, 

As the fog from off the water, 

As the mist from off the meadow. 

With a smile of joy and triumph, 

With a look of exultation, 

As of one who in a vision 
Sees what is to to be, but is not, 

Stood and waited Hiawatha. 

Toward the sun his hands were lifted, 
Both the palms spread out against it, 
And between the parted fingers 
Fell the sunshine on his features, 

Flecked with light his naked shoulders, 
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree 
Through the rifted leaves and branches. 

O’er the water floating, flying, 
Something in the hazy distance, 
Something in the mists of morning, 
Loomed and lifted from the water, 

Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, 
Cominsr nearer, nearer, nearer. 


Was it Shingebis the diver ? 

Or the pelican, the Shada ? 

Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah ? 

Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 

With the water dripping, flashing 
From its glossy neck and feathers ? 

It was neither goose nor diver, 

Neither pelican nor heron, 

O’er the water floating, flying, 

Through the shining mist of morning, 
But a birch-canoe with paddles, 

Rising, sinking on the water, 

Dripping, flashing in the sunshine ; 

And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 

From the farthest realms of morning 
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, 
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, 
With his guides and his companions. 

And the noble Hiawatha, 

With his hands aloft extended, 

Held aloft in sign of welcome, 

Waited, full of exultation, 

Till the birch canoe with paddles 
Grated on the shining pebbles, 

Stranded on the sandy margin, 

Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
With the cross upon his bosom, 

Landed on the sandy margin. 

Then the joyous Hiawatha 
Cried aloud and spake in this wise : 

“ Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, 

When you come so far to see us ! 

All our town in peace awaits you, 

All our doors stand open for you ; 

You shall enter all our wigwams, 

For the heart’s right hand we give you. 

“ Never bloomed the earth so gayly, 
Never shone the sun so brightly, 

As to-day they shine and blossom 
When you come so far to see us ! 

Never was our lake so tranquil, 

Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars ; 
For your birch-canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sand-bar. 

“ Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, 

Never the broad leaves of our cornfields 
Were so beautiful to look on, 

As they seem to us this morning, 

When you come so far to see us ! ” 

And the Black-Robe chief made an¬ 
swer. 









HI A IVA THA'S HE PAR TURE. 


357 


Stammered in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar : 

“ Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 

Peace be with you and your people, 
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, 
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary ! ” 
Then the generous Hiawatha 
Led the strangers to his wigwam, 
Seated them on skins of bison, 


And the medicine-men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome ; 

“ It is well,” they said, “ O brothers, 
That you come so far to see us ! ” 

In a circle round the doorway, 

With their pipes they sat in silence, 
Waiting to behold the strangers, 
Waiting to receive their message, 

Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 



Seated them on skins of ermine, 

And the careful old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of bass¬ 
wood, 

Water brought in birchen dippers, 

And the calumet, the peace-pipe, 

Filled and lighted for their smoking. 

All the old men of the village, 

All the warriors of the nation, 

All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 

The magicians, the Wabenos, 


From the wigwam came to greet them, 
Stammering in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 

“ It is well,” they said, “ O brother, 

That you come so far to see us ! ” 

Then the Black-Robe chief, the 
prophet, 

Told his message to the people, 

Told the purport of his mission, 

Told them of the Virgin Mary, 

And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 






























































358 * THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


How in distant lands and ages 
He had lived on earth as we do : 

How he fasted, prayed, and labored; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified 
him ; 

How he rose from where they laid him, 
Walked again with his disciples, 

And ascended into heaven. 

And the chiefs made answer, saying : 

“ We have listened to your message, 

We have heard your words of wisdom, 
We will think on what you tell us. 

It is well for us, O brothers, 

That you come so far to see us ! ” 

Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wigwam, 

To the young men and the women 
Told the story of the strangers 
Whom the Master of Life had sent them 
From the shining land of Wabun. 

Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of Summer ; 

With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wigwam, 
With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it; 

From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless 
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena ; 
And the guests of Hiawatha, 

Weary with the heat of Summer, 
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 

Slowly o’er the simmering landscape 
Fell the evening’s dusk and coolness, 

And the long and level sunbeams 
Shot their spears into the forest, 

Breaking through its shields of shadow, 
Rushed into each secret ambush, 

Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow : 
Still the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 

From his place rose Hiawatha, 

Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 

Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 

Did not wake the guests, that slumbered : 
“ I am going, O Nokomis, 

On a long and distant journey, 

To the portals of the Sunset, 

To the regions of the home-wind, 

Of the North-west wind, Keewaydin. 

But these guests I leave behind me, 

In your watch and ward I leave them ; 
See that never harm comes near them, 


See that never fear molests them, 

Never danger nor suspicion, 

• Never want of food or shelter, 

In the lodge of Hiawatha ! ” 

Forth into the village went he, 

Bade farewell to all the warriors, 

Bade farewell to all the young men, 

Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 

“ I am going, O my people, 

On a long and distant journey ; 

Many moons and many winters 

Will have come, and will have vanished, 

Ere I come again to see you. 

But my guests I leave behind me ; 

Listen to their words of wisdom, 

Listen to the truth they tell you, 

For the Master of Life has sent them 
From the land of light and morning ! ” 
On the shore stood Hiawatha, 

Turned and waved his hand at parting ; 
On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing, 
From the pebbles of the margin 
Shoved it forth into the water ; 
Whispered to it, “ Westward! west¬ 
ward ! ” 

And with speed it darted forward. 

And the evening sun descending 
Set the clouds on fire with redness, 
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, 

Left upon the level water 
One long track and trail of splendor, 
Down whose stream, as down a river, 
Westward, westward Pliawatha 
Sailed into the fiery sunset, 

Sailed into the purple vapors, 

Sailed into the dusk of evening. 

And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking, 

Till the birch-canoe seemed lifted 
High into that sea of splendor, 

Till it sank into the vapors 
Like the new moon slowly, slowly 
Sinking in the purple distance. 

And they said, “ Farewell forever ! ” 
Said, “ Farewell, O Hiawatha ! ” 

And the forests, dark and lonely, 

Moved through all their depths of dark¬ 
ness, 

Sighed, “ Farewell, O Hiawatha ! ” 

And the waves upon the margin 
Rising, rippling on the pebbles, 

Sobbed, “ Farewell, O Hiawatha ! ” 








VOCABULARY. 


359 


And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her haunts among the fen-lands, 
Screamed, “ Farewell, O Hiawatha ! ” 
Thus departed Hiawatha, 

Hiawatha the Beloved, 

In the glory of the sunset, 


In the purple mists of evening, 

To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the Northwest-wind Keewaydin. 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 

To the kingdom of Ponemah, 

To .the land of the Hereafter ! 



VOCABULARY. 


Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel. 

Ahdeek 7 , the reindeer. 

Ahkose'win, fever. 

Ahmeek 7 , the beaver. 

Algon'quin, Ojibway. 

Annemee'kee, the thunder. 

Apuk'wa, a bulrush. 

Bairn-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder. 
Bemah/gut, the grape-vine. 

Be 7 na, the pheasant. 

Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior. 
Bukada'win, famine. 

Cheemaun 7 , a birch-canoe. 

Chetowaik 7 , the plover. 

Chibia 7 bos, a musician ; friend of Hiawa¬ 
tha ; ruler in the Land of Spirits. 
Dahin 7 da, the bullfrog. 

Dush-kwo-ne 7 she, or Kwo-ne 7 she, the 
dragon-fly. 

Esa, shame upon you. 


Ewa-yea 7 , lullaby. 

Ghee'zis, the sun. 

Gitche Gu'mee, the Big-Sea- Water , 
Lake Superior. 

Gitche Man 7 ito, the Great Spirit, the Mas¬ 
ter of Life. 

Gushkewau 7 , the darkness. 

Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher; 
son of Mudjekeewis, the West- Wind, 
and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis. 

Ia 7 goo, a great boaster and story-teller. 

Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game 
of the Bowl. 

Ishkoodah 7 , fire ; a comet. 

Jee 7 bi, a ghost, a spirit. 

Joss'akeed, a prophet. 

Kabibonok 7 ka, the North- Wind. 

Kagh, the hedgehog. 

Ka'go, do not. 

Kahgahgee 7 , the raven. 





























360 THE SONG OF HIAIVATHA. 


Kaw, no. 

Kaween 7 , no indeed. 

Kayoshk 7 , the sea-gull. 

Kee 7 go, a fish. 

Leeway Min, the Northwest-wind, the 
Home-wind. 

Kena'beek, a serpent. 

Keneu 7 , the great war-eagle. 

Keno'zha, the pickerel. 

Ko / ko-ko / ho, the owl. 

Kuntasoo 7 , the Game of Plum-stones. 
Kwa'sind, the Strong Man. 

Kwo-ne / she, or Dush-kwo-ne 7 she, the 
dragon-fly. 

Mahnahbe'zee, the swan. 

Mahng, the loon. 

Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave. 
Mahnomo'nee, wild rice. 

Ma 7 ma, the woodpecker. 

Maskeno'zha, the pike. 

Me 7 da, a medicine-man. 

MeenalFga, the blueberry. 

Megissog'won, the great Pearl-Feather, a 
magician, and the Manito of Wealth. 
Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer. 
Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens. 
Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; a water¬ 
fall on a stream running into the Mis¬ 
sissippi, between Fort Snelling and the 
Falls of St. Anthony. 

Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; wife of 
Hiawatha. 

Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the 
wind in the trees. 

Mishe-Mo 7 kwa, the Great Bear. 
Mishe-Nah / ma, the Great Sturgeon. 
Miskodeed 7 , the Spring-Beauty, the Clay- 
tonia Virginica. 

Monda 7 min, Indian corn. 

Moon of Bright Nights, April. 

Moon of Leaves, May. 

Moon of Strawberries, June. 

Moon of the Falling Leaves, September. 
Moon of Snow-shoes, November. 
Mudjekee'wis, the West- Wind; father of 
Hiawatha. 

Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a 
shore. 

Mushkoda 7 sa, the grouse. 

Nah 7 ma, the sturgeon. 

Nah'ma-wusk 7 , spearmint. 

Na 7 gow Wudj 7 oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake 
Superior. 


Nee-ba-naw 7 baigs, water-spirits. 
Nenemoo 7 sha, sweetheart. 

Nepah'win, sleep. 

Noko 7 mis, a grandmother; mother of 
Wenonah. 

No 7 sa, my father. 

Nushdca, look ! look! 

Odah 7 min, the strawberry. 

OkahalFwis, the fresh-water herring. 
Ome'me, the pigeon. 

Ona 7 gon, a bowl. 

On away 7 , awake. 

Ope 7 chee, the robin. 

Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star. 

Owais'sa, the bluebird. 

Oweenee 7 , wife of Osseo. 

Ozawa 7 beek, a round piece of brass or cop¬ 
per in the Game of the Bowl. 
Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper. 

Paihguk, death. 

Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yena- 
dizze, the Storm-Fool. 

Pauwa 7 ting, Sant Sainte Marie. 

Pe 7 boan, Winter. 

PenFican, meat of the deer or buffalo dried 
and pounded. 

Pezhekee 7 , the bison. 

Pishnekuh 7 , the brant. 

Ponehnah, hereafter. 

Pugasaing 7 , Game of the Bowl. 
Puggawau'gun, a zuar-club. 

Puk-Wudjdes, little wild men of the 
wood ; pygmies. 

Sah-sah-je 7 wun, rapids. 

Sah 7 wa, the perch. 

Segwun 7 , Spring. 

Sha 7 da, the pelican. 

Shahbo'min, the gooseberry. 

Shah-shah, long ago. 

Shaugoda 7 ya, a coward. 

Shawgashee 7 , the crawfish. 

Shawonda 7 see, the South- Wind. 
Shaw-shaw, the szvallow. 

Shesh 7 ebwug, ducks ; pieces in the Game 
of the Bowl. 

Shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe. 

Showain 7 neme'shin, pity me. 
Shuh-shulFgah, the blue heron. 
Soan-ge-ta 7 ha, strong-hearted. 
Subbeka'she, the spider. 

Sugge'ma, the mosquito. 

To'tem , family coat of arms. 

Ugh, yes. 









VOCABULARY. 


Ugudwash', the sun-fish. 

Unktahee', the God of Water. 

Wabas'so, the rabbit; the North. 

W abe 'no, a magician , a juggler. 
Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow. 

W a'bun, the East- Wind. 

Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East , 
the Morning Star. 

Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation. 
Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly. 

Wam'pum, beads of shell. 


361 


Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper. 
Wa'wa, the wild-goose. 

Waw'beek, a rock. 

Waw-be-vva'wa, the white goose. 
Wawonais'sa, the:whippoorwill. 
Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar. 
WeiVcligoes, giants. 

Weno'nah, Hiawatha's mother, daughter 
of Nokomis. 

Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an 
Indian dandy. 











THE COURTSHIP OF MILES 
STANDISH. 

1858. 

I. 

MILES STANDISH. 

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, 

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, 

JStrode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. 

^ Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing 
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, 

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, — 

Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, 

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, 

While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock. 
$hort of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, A 
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron ; 
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already 
V^^Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. 

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion, 
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window ; 


















































































MILES STANDISH. 363 


Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, 

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives 
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “ Not Angles, but Angels.” 
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower. 

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, 

Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. 

“ Look at these arms,” he said, “ the warlike weapons that hang here 
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection ! 

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate, 
Well I remember the day ! once saved my life in a skirmish ; 

Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet 
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. 

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish 
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.” 
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing : 

“ Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; 

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon ! ” 

Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling : 

“ See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging ; 

That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. 

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage ; 

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. 

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, 

Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, 
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, 

And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers ! ” 

This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams 
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. 

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued : 

“ Look ! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted 
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, 
Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic, 

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. 

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians ; 

Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better, — 

Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, 

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon ! ” 

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, 
Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind, 

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, 

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. 

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, 

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion, 
Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded : 

“Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish ; 

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside ! 

She was the first to die of all who came in the May Flower ! 

Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there. 

Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, 

Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished ! ” 
Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful. 





THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 


364 


Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them 
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding ; 

Bariffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar 
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, 

And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. 

Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful 
Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, 
Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, 
Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. 

Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, 

Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence 
Turned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, 
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 

Busily writing epistles important, to go by the May Flower, 



Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing! 
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, 

Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, 

Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ! 

II. 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 

Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, 

Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar. 

After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards, 
Heavily on the page : “ A wonderful man was this Caesar ! 

\ ou are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow 

Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful ! ” 

Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful : 







































LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 365 


“ Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons. 
Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate 
Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs.” 

“ Truly,” continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, 

“Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar ! 

Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, 

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. 

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after ; 

Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered ; 

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded ; 

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus ! 

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, 

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, 

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together 
There was no room for their swords ? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier, 
Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, 
Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns ; 

Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons ; 

So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. 

That’s what I always say ; if you wish a thing to be well done, 

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! ” 

All was silent again ; the Captain continued his reading. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling 
Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower, 

Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ; 

Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, 

Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, 

Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla ! 

Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, 

Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, 

Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth : 

“ When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you. 
Be not however in haste ; I can wait; I shall not be impatient ! ” 

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, 

Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention : 

“ Speak ; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, 

Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.” 

Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases : 

“ ’T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. 

This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; 

Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. 

Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary ; 

Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. 

Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. 

She is alone in the world ; her father and mother and brother 
Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, 

Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, 

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever 
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, 

Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla 
Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. 

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, 





366 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 


Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. 

Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden in Plymouth, 

Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, 

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. 

Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; 

I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, 

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, 

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.” 

/ 

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, 

All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, 

Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, 

Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, 

Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, 

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered : 

“ Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it ; 

If you would have it well done, — I am only repeating your maxim, — 

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! ” 

But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, 

Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth : 

“ Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it ; 

But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. 

Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. 

I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, 

But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. 

I’m not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, 

But of a thundering ‘ No ! ’ point-blank from the mouth of a woman, 

That I confess I’m afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it ! 

So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, 

Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases.” 

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, 

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added : 

“ Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me ; 
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship ! ” 

Then made answer John Alden : “ The name of friendship is sacred ; 

What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you ! ” 

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler, 

Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. 

III. 

THE LOVER’S ERRAND. 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, 

Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, 

Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building 
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, 

Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. 

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, 

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. 

To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, 

As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, 










THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 


367 


Washes the-bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean ! 

Must I relinquish it all,” he cried with a wild lamentation, — 

“ Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion ? 

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence ? 



Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow 
Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England ? 

Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption 
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion; 

Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. 

All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see it distinctly ! 

This is the hand of the Lord ; it is laid upon me in anger, 

For I have followed too much the heart’s desires and devices, 
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. 

This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution.” 

So through the Plymouth woods, John Alden went on his errand ; 
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shallow. 
Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, 
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness, 

Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber. 

“ Puritan flowers,” he said, “ and the type of Puritan maidens, 

Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla ! 

































368 THE COURTSHIP OP MILES STANDISH. 


So I will take them to her ; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth, 
Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them ; 
Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, 
Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver.” 

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; 

Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, 

Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind ; 
Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow ; 

Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla 
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand qld Puritan anthem, 

Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, 

Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. 

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden 
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift 
Piled at her knee, her left hand feeding the ravenous spindle, 

While with her right she sped, or reversed the wheel in its motion. 



Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, 

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together, 

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, 
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. 

Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem, 
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, 

Making the humble house and the modest apparel of homespun 
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being ! 

Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, 
Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand . 
All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, 

All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, 

Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. 

Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, 

“ Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards ; 
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains, 
Though it pass o’er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the living, 

It is the will of the Lord ; and his mercy endureth forever ! ” 


















































THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 



369 


Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside, 

Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm. 

Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain had he spoken ; 

Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished ! 

So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. 

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring-time, 
Talked of their friends at home, and the May Flower that sailed on the morrow. 
“ I have been thinking all day,” said gently the Puritan maiden, 

“ Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of England, — 
They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden ; 

Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, 

Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors 

24 


So he entered the house : and the hum of the wheel and the singing 
Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, 

Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, 

Saying, “ I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage ; 

For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.” 

Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, 

Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, 

Finding no words for his thought. Fie remembered that day in the winter, 
After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, 

Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway, 
Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla 


























































37 ° the courtship of miles standish 


Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together, 

And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy 
Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard. 

Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion ; 

Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. 

You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almost 

Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.” 

Thereupon answered the youth : “ Indeed I do not condemn you ; 

Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter. 

Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on ; 

So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage 

Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth ! ” 

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters, — 

Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, 

But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a school-boy ; 

Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. 

Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden 
Looked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder, 

Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless; 
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence : 

“ If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, 

Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me ? 

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning ! ” 

Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, 

Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was bitsy, — 

Had no time for such things ; — such things ! the words grating harshly 
Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift as a flash she made answer : 

“ Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, 

Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding ? 

That is the way with you men ; you don’t understand us, you cannot. 

When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that one, 
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another, 

Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, 

And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman 
Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected, 

Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing. 

This is not right nor just : for surely a woman’s affection 
Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. 

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. 

Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me, 

Even this Captain of yours — who knows ? — at last might have won me, 

Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can happen.” 

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, 

Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding ; 

Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, 

How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction, 

How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth ; 

He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly 
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, 

Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish; 





JOHN ALDEN. 


37i 


Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, 

Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent 
Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. 

He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature ; 

Though he was rough, he was kindly ; she knew how during the winter 
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman’s; 
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, 

Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always, 

Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature ; 

For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous ; 

Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, 

Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish ! 

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, 

Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, 
Said, in a tremulous voice, “ Why don’t you speak for yourself, John ? 




IV. 



JOHN ALDEN. 


Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, 

Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the seaside ; 

Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind, 

Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. 

Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, 

Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, 

So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, 

Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted 
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. 

“ Welcome, O wind of the East ! ” he exclaimed in his wild exultation. 

“ Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic ! 
Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, 
Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean ! 

Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me 
Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me ! ” 

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing, 

Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. 

Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending; 

Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, 
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty ! 

“ Is it my fault,” he said, “ that the maiden has chosen between us ? 

Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that I am the victor ? ” 

Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet: 

“ It hath displeased the Lord f ” — and he thought of David’s transgression 
Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle ! 

Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed him at once ; and he cried in the deepest contrition : 

“ It hath displeased the Lord ! It is the temptation of Satan ! ” 













37 2 the COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 


Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there 
Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower riding af anchor, 

Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow ; 

Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage 

Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ “ Ay, ay, Sir ! ” 

Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. 

Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, 

Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, 

Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. 

“ Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured ; “the hand of the Lord is 
Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, 

Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, 

Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. 

Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, 

Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. 

Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, 

Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred ; 



Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor ! 

Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber 

With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers 

Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness, - 

Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter ! ” 

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution, 
Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, 

Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, 

Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, 

Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. 

Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain 
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Cmsar, 

Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. 

“ Long have you been on your errand,” he said with a cheery demeanor, 
Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. 

“ Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us ; 

But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming 







JOHN ALDEN. 


373 



Wildly he shouted, and loud : “John Alden ! you have betrayed me ! 

Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me ! 
One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler ; 

Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor ? 
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship ! 

You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother ; 
You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping 
I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret, — 

You too, Brutus ! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter ! 

Brutus was Caesar’s friend, and you were mine, but henceforward 
Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred ! ” 

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, 
Chafing and choking with rage ; like cords were the veins on his temples. 


I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. 

Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.” 


Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, 

From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened; 

How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, 

Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. 

But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, 

Words so tender and cruel : “ Why don’t you speak for yourself, John ? ” 

Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor 
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen. 

All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, 

E’en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. 



































374 


TIIE COURTSHIP OF MILES SI A A T D ISH. 


But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, 

Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, 

Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians ! 
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley, 
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed. 

Alden was left alone. lie heard the clank of the scabbard 
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. 

Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, 

Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that n(as hot with the insult, 

Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood, 
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. 

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, 
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming ; 

Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, 

Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, 

Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. 

God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, 

Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation ; 

So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people ! 

Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, 

Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect ; 

While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, 

Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, 

And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, 

Filled, like a quiver, with arrows ; a signal and challenge of warfare, 
Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. 
This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating 
What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, 

Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting ; 

One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, 

Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, 

Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior ! 

Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, 
Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, 

“ What ! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses ? 

Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted 
There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils ? 

Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage 

Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon ! ” 

Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, 

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language : 

“ Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles ; 

Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with ! ” 
But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, 

Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing : 

“ Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. 

War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous, 

Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge ! ” 

Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, 
Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets 






THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 


375 


Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, 

Saying, in thundering tones : “ Here, take it ! this is your answer ! ” 
Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, 

Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, 
Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. 



V. 

THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, 
There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth ; 
Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, “ Forward ! ” 
Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. 

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. 

Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, 

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, 
Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. 

Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David ; 
Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible, — 

Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. 

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning ; 

Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, 

Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. 



































































376 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth 
Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors. 

Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys 
Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward ; 

Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather, 

Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the May Flower; 
Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all the dangers that menaced, 

He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. 

Merrily ^ang the birds, and the tender voices of women 
Consecrated with hymns the common cargs of the household. 

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming ; 

Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains ; 

Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at anchor, 

Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. 

Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, 

Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. 

Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, 

Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward ; anon rang 
Loud over field and forest the cannon’s roar, and the echoes 
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure ! 

Ah ! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people ! 

Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, 

Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty ! 

Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, 

Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, 

Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the May Flower, 

Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. 

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber, 
Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. 

He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council, 

Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur, 

Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing. 

Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence ; 

Then he had turned away, and said : “ I will not awake him ; 

Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking ! ” 

Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet, 
Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning, — 
Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders, — 
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. 

But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him 
Put on his corslet of steel, and all the rest of his armor, 

Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, 

Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. 

Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him, 

Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon ; 

All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emotions ; 

But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him, — 

Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. 

So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, 

Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps, to death, and he spake not ! 

Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying, 

Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert, 





THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 


377 


Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, 

And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore, 
Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a door-step 
Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a nation ! 


There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient 
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward, 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him, 
Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels 
Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together 
Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. 

Neaiei the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale, 

One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, 

Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. 

He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish, 

1 hinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, 

1 hinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him. 



But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla 
Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. 

Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, 

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, 

That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose, 

As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. 

Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts ! 

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, 

Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine ! 

“ Here I remain ! ” he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, 
Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness, 
Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. 

“ Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me, 

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. 

There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, 

Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. 

Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether ! 

Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me ; I heed not 
Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil ! 

There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome. 












378 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAND ISII 


As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps. 

Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence 
Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness ; 

Yes ! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing, 

So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving ! ” 

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, 

Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, 

Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around him 
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. 

Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, 

Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, 

Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, 

Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, 

Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel ! 

Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. 

O strong hearts and true ! not one went back in the May Flower ! 

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing ! 

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. 

Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, 

Blowing steady and strong ; and the May Flower sailed from the harbor, 
Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward 
Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, 

Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, 

Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. 

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, 

Much endeared to them all, as something living and human ; 

Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, 

Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 

Said, “ Let us pray ! ” and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage, 
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them 
Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred 
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered. 
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean 
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard ; 

Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping. 

Lo ! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, 

Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other, 

Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “ Look ! ” he had vanished. 

So they returned to their homes ; but Alden lingered a little, 

Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows 
Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine, 

Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over, the waters. 

VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 

Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla : 






PRISCILLA . * 379 


And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone, 
Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, 

Lo ! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. 

“ Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me ? ” said she. 
“Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading 
Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, 
Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum ? 
Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying 
What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it ; 

For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, 
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble 



Drops some careless word, it overflows/ and its secret, 

Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. 

Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, 
Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, 

Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, 

As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, 

Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. 

Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. 

You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, 
Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken ! ” 

Thereupon answered John Alclen, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish . 
“ I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, 

Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.’ 

“ No ! ” interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive : 

















380 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


“ No ; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. 

It was wrong, I acknowledge ; for it is the fate of a woman 
Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, 

Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. 

Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women 
Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers 
Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, 
Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs.” 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women : 

“ Heaven forbid it, Priscilla ; and truly they seem to me always 
More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, 

More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Plavilah flowing, 

Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden ! ” 

“ Ah, by these words, I can see,” again interrupted the maiden, 

“ Plow very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. 

When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, 
Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, 

Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest, 
Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases. 

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you ; 

For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, 

Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 

Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly 
If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, 

If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases 
Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, 

But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.” 

Mute and amazed was Alden ; and listened and looked at Priscilla, 
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. 

He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, 

Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. 

So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined 

What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless. 

“ Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things 
Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship. 

It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it : 

I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. 

So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you 
Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish. 
For I must tell you the truth : much more to me is your friendship 
Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him.” 

Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, 

Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely, 
Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling : 

“ Yes, we must ever be friends ; and of all who offer you friendship 
Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest ! ” 

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the May Flower, 

Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon, 

Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, 

That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. 

But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine. 





THE MATCH OF MILES STAN DISH 381 


Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly: 

“ Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, 

Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, 

You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you, 

When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me.” 
Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story, — 
Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. 

Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest. 

“ He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment! ” 

But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how he had suffered, — 

How he had even determined to sail that day in the May Flower, 

And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangei's that threatened, — 
All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, 

“ Truly I thank you for this : how good you have been to me always ! ” 

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, 

Taking thi*ee steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, 

Ui'ged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition ; 

Slowly but steadily onward, l’eceding yet ever advancing, 

Jouimeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, 

Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remoi'seful misgivings. 

VII. 

THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward, 
Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore, 
All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger 
Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder 
Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. 

Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort; 

He who was used to success, and to easy victoi'ies always, 

Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden, 

Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted ! 
Ah ! ’t was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor! 

“ I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “ for mine was the folly. 

What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and-gray in the harness, 

Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens ? 

’T was but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish like so many others ! 
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless ; 

Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and hencefoi'ward 
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers ! ” 

Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, 

While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, 

Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. 

After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment 
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest; 

Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with war-paint, 
Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together ; 

Who. when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men, 

Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, 





382 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAND IS H. 


Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, 

Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present; 

Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. 

Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in stature, 

Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan ; 

One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. 

Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, 
Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. 

Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. 

“ Welcome, English ! ” they said, — these words they had learned from the traders 
Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. 

Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, 

Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, 



Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, 

Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars, 
Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man ! 

But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, 
Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. 

Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, 

And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain : 

“ Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, 

Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat 
Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, 

But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, 

Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, 

Shouting, ‘ Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat ?’ ” 

Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand, 

Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle, 

Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning : 

“ I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle ; 

By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children ! ” 















THE SPINNING-WHEEL. ' 383 


Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish : 

While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, 

Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, 

“ By and by it shall see ; it shall eat; ah, ha ! but shall speak not ! 

This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us ! 

He is a little man; let him go and work with the women ! ” 

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians 
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the foz'est, 

Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, 

Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. 

But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly ; 

So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. 

But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, 

All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, 

Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. 

Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard. 
Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage 
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. 

Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop, 

And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, 

Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows. 

Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, 

Out of the lightning thunder ; and death unseen ran before it. 

Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, 

Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, 

Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet 

Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward, 

Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. 

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them, 

Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. 

Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth : 

“ Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature, — 
Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now 
Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you ! ” 

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish. 
When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, 

And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat 

Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress, 

All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. 

Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of terror, 

Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish; 

Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home'from his battles, 

He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor. 

VIII. 

THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the merchants 
Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. 






384 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 


All in the village was peace ; the men were intent on their labors, 
Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with merestead, 
Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, 
Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. 

All in the village was peace ; but at times the rumor of warfare 
Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. 

Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the land with his forces, 
Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, 

Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. 

Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition 



Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, 
Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a river, 
Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. 


Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation, 

Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the forest. 
Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes ; 
Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper, 
Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. 

There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard : 

Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. 





































THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 385 


Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, 
Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden’s allotment 
In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time 
Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. 

Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer 
Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla, 

Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, 

Pleasures disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. 

Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling ; 

Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil of his garden; 

Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday 
Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs, — 

How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, 

How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, 

How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, 

How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, 

How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, 

Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her weaving ! 

So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, 

Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, 

As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune, 

After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. 

“ Truly, Priscilla,” he said, “ when I see you spinning'and spinning, 

Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, 

Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment; 

You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner.” 

Here the light hand on the wheel grew swifter and swifter; the spindle 
Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers; 

While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued : 

“ You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia; 

She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, 

Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o’er valley and meadow and mountain, 

Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. 

She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. 

So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer 
Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. 

Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their childhood, 
Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner ! ” 

Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, 

Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest. 
Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, 

Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden : 

“ Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern for housewives, 

Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. 

Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting; 

Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the manners, 
Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden ! ” 

Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, 

He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him. 

She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers, 
Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, 

25 





3 86 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly 
Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how could she help it ? 

Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. 

Lo ! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, 

Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. 

Yes ; Miles Standish was dead ! — an Indian had brought them the tidings, — 
Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, 

Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces ; 

All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered ! 

Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. 

Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward 



Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror ; 

But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow 

Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered 

Once and forever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, 

Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, 
Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, 
Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, 
Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, and exclaiming : 

“ Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder ! ” 

Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, 

Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing 
Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, 




































































































































THE WEDDING-DAY. 387 


Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest; 

So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, 

Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, 

Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, 

Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. 

IX. 

THE WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, 

Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, 

Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, 

Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. 

Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. 

Friends were assembled together ; the Elder and Magistrate also 

Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel, 

One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven. 

Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. 

Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, 

Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s presence, 

After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. 

Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 

Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection, 

Speaking of life and of death, and imploring Divine benedictions. 

Lo ! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, 

Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure ! 

Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition ? 

Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder ? 

Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illusion ? 

Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal ? 

Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed; 

Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression 
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, 

As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud 
Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. 

Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, 

As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. 

But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction, 

Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement 
Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth ! 

Grasping the bridegroom’s hand,'he said with emotion, “ Forgive me ! 

I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I cherished the feeling; 

I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God ! it is ended. 

Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, 
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. 

Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.” 
Thereupon answered the bridegroom : “ Let all be forgotten between us, — 
All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer ! ” 







388 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, 

Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashionccl gentry in England, 

Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, 

Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. 

Then he said with a smile : “ I should have remembered the adage, — 

If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, 

No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas ! ” 

Great was the people’s amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, 

Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their Captain, 

Whom they had mourned as dead ; and they gathered and crowded about him, 
Eager to see him, and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, 
Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, 

Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered, 



He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, 

Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. 


Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway, 
Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. 

Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, 

Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation : 

There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea-shore, 

There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows ; 

But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, 

Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean. 

Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, 

Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, 

Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. 
























THE WEDDING-DA Y 389 


Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, 

Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, 

Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master, 

Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, 

Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. 

She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday ; 
Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. 

Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, 

Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, 
Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. 

“ Nothing is wanting now,” he said with a smile, “ but the distaff; 

Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha ! ” 

Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, 

Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. 

Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, 
Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom 
Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths of the azure abysses. 

Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, 
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, 
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, 
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eschol. 

Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, < 

Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 

Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, 

Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. 

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. 










BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 

Facendo in aer di sfe lunga riga. 

Dante. 


PROMETHEUS, 

OR THE POET’S FORETHOUGHT. 

Of Prometheus, how undaunted 
On Olympus’ shining bastions 
His audacious foot he planted, 

Myths are told and songs are chanted, 
Full of promptings and suggestions. 

Beautiful is the tradition 

Of that flight through heavenly portals, 
The old classic superstition 
Of the theft and the transmission 
Of the fire of the Immortals ! 

First the deed of noble daring, 

Born of heavenward aspiration, 

Then the fire with mortals sharing, 

Then the vulture, — the despairing 
Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 

All is but a symbol painted 
Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer ; 

Only those are crowned and sainted 
Who with grief have been acquainted, 
Making nations nobler, freer. 

In their feverish exultations, 

In their triumph and their yearning, 

In their passionate pulsations, 

In their words among the nations, 

The Promethean fire is burning. 

Shall it, then, be unavailing, 

All this toil for human culture ? 
Through the cloud-rack, dark and trail¬ 
ing 

Must they see above them sailing 
O’er life’s barren crags the vulture ? 

Such a fate as this was Dante’s, 

By defeat and exile maddened ; 

Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 
Nature’s priests and Corybantes, 

By affliction touched and saddened. 


But the glories so transcendent 

That around their memories cluster, 
And, on all their steps attendant, 

Make their darkened lives resplen¬ 
dent 

With such gleams of inward lustre ! 

All the melodies mysterious, 

Through the dreary darkness chanted ; 
Thoughts in attitudes imperious, 

Voices soft, and deep, and serious, 

Words that whispered, songs that 
haunted ! 

All the soul in rapt suspension, 

All the quivering, palpitating 
Chords of life in utmost tension, 

With the fervor of invention, 

With the rapture of creating ! 

Ah, Prometheus ! heaven-scaling ! 

In such hours of exultation 
Even the faintest heart, unquailing, 

Might behold the vulture sailing 
Round the cloudy crags Caucasian ! 

Though to all there is not given 
Strength for such sublime endeavor, 
Thus to scale the walls of heaven, 

And to leaven with fiery leaven 
All the hearts of men forever ; 

Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted 
Honor and believe the presage, 

Hold aloft their torches lighted, 

Gleaming through the realms benighted, 
As they onward bear the message ! 

THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUS¬ 
TINE. 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 
That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder, if we will but tread 

Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 





THE PHANTOM SHIP. 391 

All common things, each day’s events, 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 

That with the hour begin and end, 

As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 

Our pleasures and our discontents, 

If, rising on its wrecks, at last 

Are rounds by which we may ascend. 

To something nobler we attain. 

The low desire, the base design, 


That makes another’s virtues less ; 

THE PHANTOM SPIIP. 

The revel of the ruddy wine, 


And all occasions of excess ; 

In Mather’s Magnalia Christi, 

The longing for ignoble things ; 

Of the old colonial time, 

May be found in prose the legend 

The strife for triumph more than truth ; 

That is here set down in rhyme. 

The hardening of the heart, that brings 


Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

A ship sailed from New Haven, 

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, 

And the keen and frosty airs, 

That filled her sails at parting, 

That have their root in thoughts of 

ill; 

Whatever hinders or impedes 

Were heavy with good men’s prayers. 

“ O Lord ! if it be thy pleasure ” — 

The action of the nobler will; — 

Thus prayed the old divine — 

All these must first be trampled down 

“To bury our friends in the ocean, 

Take them, for they are thine ! ” 

Beneath our feet, if we would gain 


In the bright fields of fair renown 

But Master Lamberton muttered, 

The right of eminent domain. 

And under his breath said he, 

We have not wings, we cannot soar; 

“ This ship is so crank and walty 

I fear our grave she will be! ” 

But we have feet to scale and climb 


By slow degrees, by more and more, 

And the ships that came from Eng- 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

land, 

The mighty pyramids of stone 

When the winter months were gone, 

Brought no tidings of this vessel 

That wedge-like cleave the desert 

Nor of Master Lamberton. 

airs, 


When nearer seen, and better known, 

This put the people to praying 

Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

That the Lord would let them hear 


What in his greater wisdom 

The distant mountains, that uprear 

He had done with friends so dear. 

Their solid bastions to the skies, 


Are crossed by pathways, that appear 

And at' last their prayers were an- 

As we to higher levels rise. 

swered : — 

The heights by great men reached and 

It was in the month of June, 

An hour before the sunset 

kept 

Of a windy afternoon, 

Were not attained by sudden, flight, 


But they, while their companions slept, 

When, steadily steering landward, 

Were toiling upward in the night. 

A ship was seen below, 

Standing on what too long we bore 

And they knew it was Lamberton, Mas¬ 
ter, 

With shoulders bent and downcast 

Who sailed so long ago. 

eyes, 

We may discern — unseen before — 

On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 

A path to higher destinies. 

Right against the wind that blew, 








392 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Until the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 

Then fell her straining topmasts, 

Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 

And her sails were loosened and lifted. 
And blown away like clouds. 

And the masts, with all their rigging, 

Fell slowly, one by one, 

And the hulk dilated and vanished, 

As a sea-mist in the sun ! 

And the people who saw this marvel 
Each said unto his friend, 

That this was the mould of their vessel, 
And thus her tragic end. 

And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to God in prayer, 

That, to quiet their troubled spirits, 

He had sent this Ship of Air. 

HAUNTED HOUSES. 

All houses wherein men have lived and 
died 

Are haunted houses. Through the 
open doors 


The harmless phantoms on their errands 
glide, 

With feet that make no sound upon 
the floors. 

We meet them at the doorway, on the 
stair, 

Along the passages they come and go, 
Impalpable impressions on the air, 

A sense of something moving to and fro. 

There are more guests at table, than the 

hosts 

Invited ; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, 
As silent as the pictures on the wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I 
hear ; 

He but perceives what is ; while unto me 
All that has been is visible and clear. 

We have no title-deeds to house or 
lands ; 

Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty 
hands, 

And hold in mortmain still their old 

estates. 









THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 393 

The spirit-world around this world of 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, 

sense 

and Dover 

Floats like an atmosphere, and every- 

Were all alert that day, 

where 

To see the French war-steamers speeding 

Wafts through these earthly mists and 

over, 

vapors dense 

When the fog cleared away. 

A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in equipoise 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
Their cannon, through the night, 

By opposite attractions and desires ; 

Holding their breath, had watched, in 

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, 

grim defiance, 

And the more noble instinct that as- 

The sea-coast opposite. 

pi res. 


These perturbations, this perpetual jar 

And now they roared at drum-beat from 
their stations 

Of earthly wants and aspirations high, 

On every citadel; 

Come from the influence of an unseen star, 

Each answering each, with morning salu- 

An undiscovered planet in our sky. 

tations, 


That all was well. 

And as the moon from some dark gate 


of cloud 

And down the coast, all taking up the 

Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge 

burden, 

of light, 

Replied the distant forts, 

Across whose trembling planks our fan- 

As if to summon from his sleep the 

cies crowd 

W arden 

Into the realm of mystery and night, — 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

So from the world of spirits there de- 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of 

scends 

azure, 

A bridge of light, connecting it with 

No drum-beat from the wall, 

this, 

No morning gun from the black fort’s 

O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways 

embrasure, 

and bends, 

Awaken with its call ! 

Wander our thoughts above the dark 


abyss. 

No more, surveying with an eye impar- 


tial 

The long line of the coast, 

. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE 

Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field 

PORTS. 

Marshal 

- 

Be seen upon his post! 

A mist was driving down the British 


Channel, 

For in the night, unseen, a single war- 

The day was just begun, 

rior, 

And through the window-panes, on floor 

In sombre harness mailed, 

and panel, 

Dreaded of man, and surnamed the De- 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 

stroyer, 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling 

The rampart wall had scaled. 

pennon, 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 

And the white sails of ships ; 

The dark and silent room, 

And, from the frowning rampart, the 

And as he entered, darker grew, and 

black cannon 

deeper, 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

The silence and the gloom. 







394 BIRDS OF BASS AGE. 

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 

Up and down the dreary camp, 

But smote the Warden hoar ; 

In great boots of Spanish leather, 

Ah ! what a blow ! that made all Eng- 

Striding with a measured tramp, 

land tremble 

These Hidalgos, dull and damp, 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the 
weather. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon 


waited, 

Thus as to and fro they went, 

The sun rose bright o’erhead ; 

Over upland and through hollow, 

Nothing in Nature’s aspect intimated 

Giving their impatience vent, 

That a great man was dead. 

Perched upon the Emperor’s tent, 

In her nest, they spied a swallow. 

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT 

Yes, it was a swallow’s nest, 

CAMBRIDGE. 

Built of clay and hair of horses, 

Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest, 

In the village churchyard she lies, 

Found on hedge-rows east and west, 

Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 

After skirmish of the forces. 

No more she breathes, nor feels, nor 


stirs ; 

Then an old Hidalgo said, 

At her feet and at her head 

As he twirled his gray mustachio, 

Lies a slave to attend the dead, 

“ Sure this swallow overhead 

But their dust is white as hers. 

Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed, 

And the Emperor but a Macho ! ” 

Was she a lady of high degree, 


So much in love with the vanity 

Hearing his imperial name 

And foolish pomp of this world of ours ? 

Coupled with those words of malice, 

Or was it Christian charity, 

Half in anger, half in shame, 

And lowliness and humility, 

Forth the great campaigner came 

The richest and rarest of all dowers ? 

Slowly from his canvas palace. 

Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 

“ Let no hand the bird molest,” 

No color shoots into those cheeks, 

Said he solemnly, “ nor hurt her ! ” 

Either of anger or of pride, 

Adding then, by way of jest, 

At the rude question we have asked ; 

“ Golondrina is my guest, 

Nor will the mystery be unmasked 

’T is the wife of some deserter ! ” 

By those who are sleeping at her side. 



Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 

Hereafter ? —Ancl do you think to look 

Through the camp was spread the 

On the terrible pages of that Book 

rumor, 

To find her failings, faults, and errors ? 

And the soldiers, as they quaffed 

Ah, you will then have other cares, 

Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 

In your own shortcomings and despairs, 

At the Emperor’s pleasant humor. 

In your own secret sins and terrors ! 



So unharmed and unafraid 

Sat the swallow still and brooded, 

THE EMPEROR’S BIRD’S-NEST. 

Till the constant cannonade 

Through the walls a breach had made 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 

And the siege was thus concluded. 

With his swarthy, grave commanders, 


I forget in what campaign, 

Then the army, elsewhere bent, 

Long besieged, in mud and rain, 

Struck its tents as if disbanding, 

Some old frontier town of Flanders. 

Only not the Emperor’s tent, 







THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT 395 

For he ordered, ere he went, 

1 

Closed are the portals of their Syna- 

Very curtly, “ Leave it standing ! ” 

gogue, 

So it stood there all alone, 

No Psalms of David now the silence 
break, 

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 

No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue 

I ill the brood was fledged and flown, 

In the grand dialect the Prophets 

Singing o’er those walls of stone 

spake. 

Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 

THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT 

Gone are the living, but the dead re¬ 
main, 

And not neglected ; for a hand unseen, 

NEWPORT. 

Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, 

How strange it seems ! These Hebrews 

Still keeps their graves and their re¬ 
membrance green. 

4 

in their graves, 

Close by the street of this fair seaport 

How came they here ? What burst of 

town, 

Christian hate, 

Silent beside the never-silent waves, 

What persecution, merciless and blind, 

At rest in all this moving up and 

Drove o’er the sea — that desert deso- 

down ! 

late — 

The tre.es are white with dust, that o’er 

These Ishmaels and Hagars of man¬ 
kind ? 

their sleep 

Wave their broad curtains in the 

They lived in narrow streets and lanes 

south-wind’s breath, 

obscure, 

While underneath these leafy tents they 

Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and 

keep 

mire ; 

The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. 

Taught in the school of patience to en- 

And these sepulchral stones, so old and 

dure 

The life of anguish and the death of 

brown, 

fire. 

That pave with level flags their burial- 
place, 

All their lives long, with the unleavened 

Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown 

bread 

down 

And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, 

And broken by Moses at the moun- 

The wasting famine of the heart they 

tain’s base. - 

fed, 

The very names recorded here are 

And slaked its thirst with marah of 
their tears. 

strange, 

' 

Of foreign accent, and of different 

Anathema maranatha ! was the cry 

climes ; 

That rang from town to town, from 

Alvares and Rivera interchange 

street to street; 

With Abraham and Jacob of old 

At every gate the accursed Mordecai 

times. 

Was mocked and jeered, and spurned 

“ Blessed be God! for he created 
Death ! ” 

by Christian feet. 

Pride and humiliation hand in hand 

The mourners said, “ and Death is rest 

Walked with them through the world 

and peace ; ” 

where’er they went; 

Then added, in the certainty of faith, 

Trampled and beaten were they as the 

“ And giveth Life that nevermore shall 

sand, 

cease.” 

And yet unshaken as the continent. 










BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 


For in the background figures vague and 
vast 

Of patriarchs and of prophets rose 
sublime, 

And all the great traditions of the 
Past 

They saw reflected in the coming time. 

And thus forever with reverted look 

The mystic volume of the world they 
read, 


Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew 
* book, 

Till life became a Legend of the Dead. 

But ah ! what once has been shall be no 
more ! 

The groaning earth in travail and in 
pain 

Brings forth its races, but does not re¬ 
store, 

And the dead nations never rise again. 



THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of 
Death, 

Passed o’er our village as the morning 
broke ; 

The dawn was on their faces, and be¬ 
neath, 

The sombre houses hearsed with 
plumes of smoke. 

Their attitude and aspect were the same, 

Alike their features and their robes of 
white, 

But one was crowned with amaranth, as 
with flame, 

And one with asphodels, like flakes of 
light. 


I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt 
oppressed, 

“ Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou 
betray 

The place where thy beloved are at 
rest ! ” 

And he who wore the crown of asphodels, 
Descending, at my door began to 
knock, 

And my soul sank within me, as in wells 
The waters sink before an earthquake’s 
shock. 

I recognized the nameless agony, 

The terror and the tremor and the 
pain, 
























VICTOR GALBRAITH. 397 

That oft before had filled or haunted 

VICTOR GALBRAITH. 

me, 


And now returned with threefold 

Under the walls of Monterey 

strength again. 

At daybreak the bugles began to play, 

The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 

Victor Galbraith ! 

In the mist of the morning damp and 

And listened, for I thought I heard 

gray, 

God’s voice ; 

These were the words they seemed to 

And, knowing whatsoe’er he sent was 

say : 

best, 

“ Come forth to thy death, 

Dared neither to lament nor to re- 

Victor Galbraith ! ” 

joice. 


Then with a smile, that filled the house 

Forth he came, with a martial tread; 

Firm was his step, erect his head ; 

with light, 

Victor Galbraith, 

“ My errand is not Death, but Life,” 

He, who so well the bugle played, 

he said ; 

Could not mistake the words it said : 

And ere I answered, passing out of 

“ Come forth to thy death, 

sight, 

Victor Galbraith ! ” 

On his celestial embassy he sped. 


’T was at thy door, 0 friend ! and not at 

He looked at the earth, he looked at the 
sky, 

mine, 

He looked at the files of musketry, 

The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 

Victor Galbraith ! 

Pausing, descended, and with voice di- 

And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 

vine, 

“ Take good aim ; I am ready to die ! ” 

Whispered a word that had a sound 

Thus challenges death 

like Death. 

Victor Galbraith. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden 

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and 

gloom, 

red, 

A shadow on those features fair and 

Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; 

thin ; 

Victor Galbraith 

And softly, from that hushed and dark- 

Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ; 

ened room, 

His name was not stamped on those 

Two angels issued, where but one went 

balls of lead, 

in. 

And they only scath 


Victor Galbraith. 

All is of God ! If he but wave his hand, 


The mists- collect, the rain falls thick 

Three balls are in his breast and brain, 

and loud, 

But he rises out of the dust again, 

Till, with a smile of light on sea and 

Victor Galbraith ! 

land, 

The water he drinks has a bloody stain; 

Lo ! he looks back from the departing 

“ 0 kill me, and put me out of my pain ! ” 

cloud. 

In his agony prayeth 


Victor Galbraith. 

Angels of Life and Death alike are his ; 


Without his leave they pass no thresh- 

Forth dart once more those tongues of 

old o’er; 

flame, 

Who, then, would wish or dare, believing 

And the bugler has died a death of shame, 

this, 

Victor Galbraith ! 

Against his messengers to shut the 

His soul has gone back to whence it 

door ? 

came, 







398 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 


And no one answers to the name, 
When the Sergeant saith, 

“ Victor Galbraith ! ” 

Under the walls of Monterey 
By night a bugle is heard to play, 


Victor Galbraith ! 

Through the mist of the valley damp and 
gray 

The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 

“ That is the wraith 
Of Victor Galbraith ! ” 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 

In the Valley of the Vire 
Still is seen an ancient mill, 
With its gables quaint and queer, 
And beneath the window-sill, 

On the stone, 

These words alone : 

“ Oliver Basselin lived here.” 

Far above it, on the steep, 

Ruined stands the old Chateau ; 
Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 

Its vacant eyes 


Stare at the skies, 

Stare at the valley green and deep. 

Once a convent, old and brown, 
Looked, but ah ! it looks no more, 
From the neighboring hillside down 
On the rushing and the roar 
Of the stream 
Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 

In that darksome mill of stone, 

To the water’s dash and din, 
Careless, humble, and unknown, 
Sang the poet Basselin 
































MY LOST YOUTH. 399 

Songs that fill 

Like the river, swift and clear, 

That ancient mill 

Flows his song through many a heart; 

With a splendor of its own. 

Haunting still 

That ancient mill, 

Never feeling of unrest 

Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; 
Only made to be his nest, 

In the Valley of the Vire. 

All the lovely valley seemed ; 

No desire 

DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 

Of soaring higher 

In broad daylight, and at noon, 

Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 

Yesterday I saw the moon 

Sailing high, but faint and white, 

True, his songs were not divine ; 

Were not songs of that high art, 

As a schoolboy’s paper kite. 

Which, as winds do in the pine, 

In broad daylight, yesterday, 

Find an answer in each heart; 

I read a Poet’s mystic lay ; 

But the mirth 

And it seemed to me at most 

Of this green earth 

Laughed and revelled in his line. 

As a phantom, or a ghost. 

But at length the feverish day 

From the alehouse and the inn, 

Like a passion died away, 

Opening on the narrow street, 

And the night, serene and still, 

Came the loud, convivial din, 

Singing and applause of feet, 

Fell on village, vale, and hill. 

The laughing lays 

Then the moon, in all her pride, 

That in those days 

Like a spirit glorified, 

Sang the poet Basselin. 

In the castle, cased in steel, 

Filled and overflowed the night 

With revelations of her light. 

Knights, who fought at Agincourt, 

And the Poet’s song again 

Watched and waited, spur on heel; 

Passed like music through my brain ; 

But the poet sang for sport 

Night interpreted to me 

Songs that rang 

Another clang, 

Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 

All its grace and mystery. 

In the convent, clad in gray, 

MY LOST YOUTH. 

Sat the monks in lonely cells, 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, 

That is seated by the sea ; 

And the poet heard their bells ; 

Often in thought go up and down 

But his rhymes 

The pleasant streets of that dear old 

Found other chimes, 

town, 

Nearer to the earth than they. 

And my youth comes back to me. 

And a verse of a Lapland song 

Gone are all the barons bold, 

Is haunting my memory still : 

Gone are all the knights and squires, 

. • “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

Gone the abbot stern and cold, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 

And the brotherhood of friars ; 

Not a name 

thoughts.” 

Remains to fame, 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 

From those mouldering days of old ! 

And catch, in sudden gleams, 

The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 

But the poet’s memory here 

And islands that were the Hesperides 

Of the landscape makes a part; 

Of all my boyish dreams. 






400 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 


And the burden of that old song, 

It murmurs and whispers still : 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

I remember the black wharves and the 
slips, 

And the sea-tides tossing free ; 

And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the 
ships, 

And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward 
song 

Is singing and saying still: 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 
And the fort upon the hill; 

The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 

The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 

And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

I remember the sea-fight far away, 

How it thundered o’er the tide ! 

And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil 
bay, 

Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill: 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

I can see the breezy dome of groves, 

The shadows of Deering’s Woods ; 

And the friendships old and the early 
loves 

Come back with a sabbath sound, as of 
doves 

In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the verse of that sweet old 
song, 

It flutters and murmurs still: 


“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

I remember the gleams and glooms that 
dart 

Across the school-boy’s brain ; 

The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still : 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

There are things of which I may not 
speak ; 

There are dreams that cannot die ; 
There are thoughts that make the strong 
heart weak, 

And bring a pallor into the cheek, 

And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill : 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 
When I visit the dear old town ; 

But the native air is pure and sweet, 

And the trees that o’ershadow each well- 
known street, 

As they balance up and down, 

Are singing the beautiful song, 

Are sighing and whispering still : 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 

And Deering’s Woods are fresh and 
fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 

And among the dreams of the days that 
were, 

I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 
The groves are repeating it still: 

“ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.” 







THE ROPEWALK. 


401 


THE ROPEWALK. 

In that building, long and low, 

With its windows all a-row, 

Like the port-holes of a hulk, 
Human spiders spin and spin, 
Backward down their threads so thin 
Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 


Laughing, as their gentle hands 
Closely clasp the twisted strands, 
At their shadow on the grass. 

Then a booth of mountebanks, 
With its smell of tan and planks, 
And a girl poised high in air 
On a cord, in spangled dress, 



At the end, an open door; 

Squares of sunshine on the floor 
Light the long and dusky lane : 
And the whirring of a wheel, 

Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 
All its spokes are in my brain. 

As the spinners to the end 
Downward go and reascend, 

Gleam the long threads in the sun ; 
While within this brain of mine 
Cobwebs brighter and more fine 
By the busy wheel are spun. 

Two fair maidens in a swing, 

Like white doves upon the wing, 

First before my vision pass ; 

26 


With a faded loveliness, 

And a weary look of care. 

Then a homestead among farms, 

And a woman with bare arms 
Drawing water from a well ; 

As the bucket mounts apace, 

With it mounts her own fair face, 

As at some magician’s spell. 

Then an old man in a tower, 

Ringing loud the noontide hour, 

While the rope coils round and 
round 

Like a serpent at his feet, 

And again, in swift retreat, 

Nearly lifts him from the ground. 






































402 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Then within a prison-yard, 

Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 
Laughter and indecent mirth ; 

Ah ! it is the gallows-tree ! 

Breath of Christian charity, 

Blow, and sweep it from the earth ! 

Then a school-boy, with his kite 

Gleaming in a sky of light, 

And an eager, upward look ; 

Steeds pursued through lane and field; 

Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 

And an angler by a brook. 

Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 

Wrecks that float o’er unknown seas, 
Anchors dragged through faithless 
sand ; 

Sea-fog drifting overhead, 

And, with lessening line and lead, 

Sailors feeling for the land. 

All these scenes do I behold, 

These, and many left untold, 

In that building long and low ; 

While the wheel goes round and 
round, 

With a drowsy, dreamy sound, 

And the spinners backward go. 


THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 

Leafless are the trees; their purple 
branches 

Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of 
coral, 

Rising silent 

In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. 

From the hundred chimneys of the vil¬ 
lage, 

Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 
Smoky columns 

Tower aloft into the air of amber. 

At the window winks the flickering fire¬ 
light ; 

Here and there the lamps of evening 
glimmer, 

Social watch-fires 

Answering one another through the 
darkness. 

On the hearth the lighted logs are glow¬ 
ing, 

And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree 
For its freedom 

Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in 
them. 









CATAWBA WINE. 


403 


By the fireside there are old men seated, 

Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 

Asking sadly 

Of the Past what it can ne’er restore 
them. 

By the fireside there are youthful dream¬ 
ers, 

Building castles fair, with stately stair¬ 
ways, 

Asking blindly 

Of the Future what it cannot give them. 


In his farthest wanderings still he sees 

it; 

Hears the talking flame, the answering 
night-wind, 

As he heard them 

When he sat with those who were, but 
are not. 

Happy he whom neither wealth nor 
fashion, 

Nor the march of the encroaching 
city, 



By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only, 

Wife and husband, 

And above them God the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and com¬ 
fort, 

Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful 
faces, 

Waiting, watching 

For a well-known footstep in the passage. 

Each man’s chimney is his Golden Mile¬ 
stone ; 

Is the central point, from which he meas¬ 
ures 

Every distance 

Through the gateways of the world 
around him. 


Drives an exile 

From the hearth of his ancestral home¬ 
stead. 

We may build more splendid habitations. 
Fill our rooms with paintings and with 
sculptures, 

But we cannot 

Buy with gold the old associations ! 
CATAWBA WINE. 


This song of mine 
Is a Song of the Vine, 

To be sung by the glowing embers 
Of wayside inns, 

When the rain begins 
To darken the drear Novembers. 













404 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

It is not a song 

And after them tumble the mixer ; 

Of the Scuppernong, 

For a poison malign 

From warm Carolinian valleys, 

Is such Borgia wine, 

Nor the Isabel 

Or at best but a Devil’s Elixir. 

And the Muscadel 

That bask in our garden alleys. 

While pure as a spring 

Nor the red Mustang, 

Is the wine I sing, 

And to praise it, one needs but name 

Whose clusters hang 

it ; • 

O’er the waves of the Colorado, 

For Catawba wine 

And the fiery flood 

Has need of no sign, 

Of whose purple blood 

No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 

Has a dash of Spanish bravado. 

For richest and best 

And this Song of the Vine, 

This greeting of mine, 

Is the wine of the West, 

The winds and the birds shall de- 

That grows by the Beautiful River ; 

liver 

Whose sweet perfume 

To the Queen of the West, 

Fills all the room 

In her garlands dressed, 

With a benison on the giver. 

On the banks of the Beautiful River. 

And as hollow trees 

Are the haunts of bees, 

SANTA FILOMENA. 

Forever going and coming ; 


So this crystal hive 

Whene’er a noble deed is- wrought, 

Is all alive 

Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, 

With a swarming and buzzing and hum- 

Our hearts, in glad surprise, 

ming. 

To higher levels rise. 

Very good in its way 

The tidal wave of deeper souls 

Is the Verzenay, 

Into our inmost being rolls, 

Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; 

And lifts us unawares 

But Catawba wine 

Out of all meaner cares. 

Has a taste more divine, 

More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. 

Honor to those whose words or deeds 

There grows no vine 

Thus help us in our daily needs, 

And by their overflow 

By the haunted Rhine, 

Raise us from what is low ! 

By Danube or Guadalquivir, 

Nor on island or cape, 

Thus thought I, as by night I read 

That bears such a grape 

Of the great army of the dead, 

As grows by the Beautiful River. 

The trenches cold and damp, 

Drugged is their juice 

For foreign use, 

The starved and frozen camp, — 

The wounded from the battle-plain, 

When shipped o’er the reeling Atlantic, 

In dreary hospitals of pain, 

To rack our brains 

The cheerless corridors, 

With the fever pains, 

The cold and stony floors. 

That have driven the Old World fran¬ 
tic. 

Lo ! in that house of misery 

To the sewers and sinks 

A lady with a lamp I see 

Pass through the glimmering gloom, 

With all such drinks, 

And flit from room to room. 








THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 


405 



And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 

The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
Her shadow, as it falls 
Upon the darkening walls. 

As if a door in heaven should be - 
Opened and then closed suddenly, 

The vision came and went, 

The light shone and was spent. 

On England’s annals, through the long 
Hereafter of her speech and song, 

That light its rays shall cast 
From portals of the past. 

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble type of good, 

Heroic womanhood. 

Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, 

The symbols that of yore 
Saint Filomena bore. 


THE DISCOVERER OF THE 
NORTH CAPE. 

A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED’S ORO- 
SIUS. 

Othere, the old sea-captain, 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 

To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, 
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, 
Which he held in his brown right 
hand. 

His figure was tall and stately, 

Like a boy’s his eye appeared ; 

His hair was yellow as hay, 

But threads of a silvery gray 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 

Hearty and hale was Othere, 

His cheek had the color of oak ; 

With a kind of laugh in his speech, 

Like the sea-tide on a beach, 

As unto the King he spoke. 





































































4°6 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 


And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Had a book upon his knees, 

And wrote down the wondrous tale 

Of him who was first to sail 

Into the Arctic seas. 

“ And then uprose before me, 

Upon the water’s edge, 

The huge and haggard shape 

Of that unknown North Cape, 

Whose form is like a wedge. 

“ So far I live to the northward, 

No man lives north of me ; 

To the east are wild mountain-chains, 

And beyond them meres and plains ; 

To the westward all is sea. 

“ The sea was rough and stormy, 

The tempest howled and wailed. 

And the sea-fog, like a ghost, 

Haunted that dreary coast, 

But onward still I sailed. 

“ So far I live to the northward, 

From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, 

If you only sailed by day, 

With a fair wind all the way, 

More than a month would you sail. 

“ Four days I steered to eastward, 

Four days without a night : 

Round in a fiery ring 

Went the great sun, 0 King, 

With red and lurid light.” 

“ I own six hundred reindeer, 

With sheep and swine beside ; 

I have tribute from the Finns, 

Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 

And ropes of walrus-hide. 

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Ceased writing for a while ; 

And raised his eyes from his book, 

With a strange and puzzled look, 

And an incredulous smile. 

“ I ploughed the land with horses, 

But my heart was ill at ease ; 

For the old seafaring men 

Came to me now and then, 

With their sagas of the seas ; — 

But Othere, the old sea-captain, 

He neither paused nor stirred, 

Till the King listened and then 

Once more took up his pen, 

And wrote down every word. 

“ Of Iceland and of Greenland, 

And the stormy Hebrides, 

And the undiscovered deep ; — 

0 I could not eat nor sleep 

For thinking of those seas. 

“ And now the land,” said Othere, 

“ Bent southward suddenly, 

And I followed the curving shore 

And ever southward bore 

Into a nameless sea. 

“ To the northward stretched the desert, 
How far I fain would know ; 

So at last I sallied forth, 

And three days sailed due north, 

As far as the whale-ships go. 

“ And there we hunted the walrus, 

The narwhale, and the seal; 

Ha !’t was a noble game ! 

And like the lightning’s flame 

Flew our harpoons of steel. 

“To the west of me was the ocean, 

To the right the desolate shore, 

But I did not slacken sail 

For the walrus or the whale, 

Till after three days more. 

“ There were six of us all together, 

Norsemen of Helgoland ; 

In two days and no moic 

We killed of them threescore, 

And dragged them to the strand ! ” 

“ The days grew longer and longer, 

Till they became as one, 

And southward through the haze 

I saw the sullen blaze 

Of the red midnight sun. 

Here Alfred the Truth-Teller 

Suddenly closed his book, 

And lifted his blue eyes, 

With doubt and strange surmise 

Depicted in their look. 









DA YBREAK. 


407 


And Othere the old sea-captain 
Stared at him wild and weird, 
Then smiled, till his shining teeth 
Gleamed white from underneath 
His tawny, quivering beard. 


And to the King of the Saxons, 

In witness of the truth, 

Raising his noble head, 

He stretched his brown hand, and said, 
“ Behold this walrus-tooth ! ” 



DAYBREAK. 

A wind came up out of the sea, 

And said, “ O mists, make room for 
me.” 

It hailed the ships, and cried, “ Sail 
on, 

Ye mariners, the night is gone.” 

And hurried landward far away, 

Crying, “ Awake ! it is the day.” 

It said unto the forest, “ Shout ! 

Hang all your leafy banners out ! ” 


It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing, 
And said, “ O bird, awake and sing.” 

And o’er the farms, “ O chanticleer, 

Your clarion blow ; the day is near.” 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 

“ Bdw down, and hail the coming 
morn.” 

It shouted through the belfry-tower, 

“ Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour.” 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
And said, “Not yet ! in quiet lie.” 


























408 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 


THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF 
AGASSIZ. 

MAY 28 , 1857. 

It was fifty years ago 

In the pleasant month of May, 

In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 

A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 
The child upon her knee, 

Saying : “ Here is a story-book 
Thy Father has written for thee.” 

“ Come, wander with me,” she said, 

“ Into regions yet untrod ; 

And read what is still unread 
In the manuscript of God.” 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 


Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long, 

Or his heart began to fail, 

She would sing a more wonderful song, 
Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child, 

And will not let him go, 

Though at times his heart beats wild 
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Though at times he hears in his dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 

And the rush of mountain streams 
From glaciers clear and cold ; 

And the mother at home says, “ Hark ! 
For his voice I listen and yearn ; 

It is growing late and dark, 

And my boy does not return ! ” 



CHILDREN. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

For I hear you at your play, 

And the questions that perplexed me 
Have vanished quite away. 

Ye open the eastern windows, 

That look towards the sun, 


Where thoughts are singing swah 
lows 

And the brooks of morning run. 

In your hearts are the birds and the sun 
shine, 

In your thoughts the brooklet’s flow, 
But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
And the first fall of the snow. 















SANDALPHON,\ 


409 



Ah ! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 

We should dread the desert behind us 
Worse than the dark before. 

What the leaves are to the forest, 
With light and air for food, 

Ere their sweet and tender juices 
Have been hardened into wood, — 

That to the world are children ; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 
Than reaches the trunks below. 


Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said ; 
For ye are living poems, 

And all the rest are dead. 


SANDALPHON. 

Have you read in the Talmud of old, 

In the Legends the Rabbins have told 
Of the limitless realms of the air, 

Have you read it, — the marvellous story 
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ? 


Come to me, O ye children ! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are singing 
In your sunny atmosphere. 

For what are all our contrivings, 

And the wisdom of our books, 

When compared with your caresses, 

And the gladness of your looks ? 


How, erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the City Celestial he waits, 

With his feet on the ladder of light, 
That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 
Alone in the desert at night ? 

The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hymn, and expire 


























4 io ' BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

With the song’s irresistible stress ; 

EPIMETHEUS, 

Expire in their rapture and wonder, 

As harp-strings are broken asunder 

OR THE POET’S AFTERTHOUGHT. 

By music they throb to express. 

But serene in the rapturous throng, 

Have I dreamed ? or was it real, 

What I saw as in a vision, 

Unmoved by the rush of the song, 

When to marches hymeneal 

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 

In the land of the Ideal 

Among the dead angels, the death- 

Moved my thought o’er Fields Ely- 

less 

sian ? 

Sandalphon stands listening breath¬ 
less 

What ! are these the guests whose glances 

To sounds that ascend from below ; — 

Seemed like sunshine gleaming round 
me ? 

From the spirits on earth that adore, 

These the wild, bewildering fancies, 

From the souls that entreat and im- 

That with dithyrambic dances 

plore 

As with magic circles bound me ? 

In the fervor and passion of prayer; 
From the hearts that are broken with 

Ah ! how cold are their caresses ! 

losses, 

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms ! 

And weary with dragging the crosses 

Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, 

Too heavy for mortals to bear. 

And from loose, dishevelled tresses 

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
And they change into flowers in his 

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! 

0 my songs ! whose winsome measures 

hands, 

Filled my heart with secret rapture ! 

Into garlands of purple and red ; 

Children of my golden leisures ! 

And beneath the great arch of the por- 

Must even your delights and pleasures 

tal, 

Fade and perish with the capture ? 

Through the streets of the City Immor- 

* 

tal 

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, 

Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 

When they came to me unbidden ; 

It is but a legend, I know, — 

Voices single, and in chorus, 

Like the wild-birds singing o’er us 

A fable, a phantom, a show, 

In the dark of branches hidden. 

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 

Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 

Disenchantment! Disillusion! 

The beautiful, strange superstition, 

Must each noble aspiration 

But haunts me and holds me the more. 

Come at last to this conclusion, 

When I look from my window at night, 

Jarring discord, wild confusion, 

Lassitude, renunciation ? 

And the welkin above is all white, 

All throbbing and panting with stars, 

Not with steeper fall nor faster, 

Among them majestic is standing 

From the sun’s serene dominions, 

Sandalphon the angel, expanding 

Not through brighter realms nor vaster, 

His pinions in nebulous bars. 

In swift ruin and disaster, 

And the legend, I feel, is a part 

Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 

Icarus fell with shattered pinions ! 

Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora ! 

The frenzy and fire of the brain, 

Why did mighty Jove create thee 

That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 

Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 

The golden pomegranates of Eden, 

Beautiful as young Aurora, 

To quiet its fever and pain. 

If to win thee is to hate thee ? 






EPIME THE US. 4 11 


No, not hate thee ! for this feeling 
Of unrest and long resistance 
Is but passionate appealing, 

A prophetic whisper stealing 
O’er the chords of our existence. 

Him whom thou dost once enamor, 

Thou, beloved, never leavest; 

In life’s discord, strife, and clamor, 

Still he feels thy spell of glamour ; 

Him of Hope thou ne’er bereavest. 

Weary hearts by thee are lifted, 

Struggling souls by thee are strength¬ 
ened, 

Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 


Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, 
Lives, like days in summer, length¬ 
ened ! 

Therefore art thou ever dearer, 

O my Sibyl, my deceiver ! 

For thou makest each mystery clearer, 
And the unattained seems nearer, 

When thou fillest my heart with 
fever ! 

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces ! 

Though the fields around us wither, 
There are ampler realms and spaces, 
Where no foot has left its traces : 

Let us turn and wander thither ! 











TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

1863. 


PRELUDE. 

THE WAYSIDE INN. 

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 
Across the meadows bare and brown, 

The windows of the wayside inn 
Gleamed red with fire-light through the 
leaves 

Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves 
Their crimson curtains rent and thin. 

As ancient is this hostelry 
As any in the land may be, 

Built in the old Colonial day, 

When men lived in a grander way, 

With ampler hospitality ; 

A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 

Now somewhat fallen to decay, 

With weather-stains upon the wall, 

And stairways worn, and crazy doors, 
And creaking and uneven floors, 

And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. 

A region of repose it seems, 

A place of slumber and of dreams, 
Remote among the wooded hills ! 

For there no noisy railway speeds, 

Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds ; 
But noon and night, the panting teams 
Stop under the great oaks, that throw 
Tangles of light and shade below, 

On roofs and doors and window-sills. 
Across the road the barns display 
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, 
Through the wide doors the breezes blow, 
The wattled cocks strut to and fro, 

And, half effaced by rain and shine, 

The Red Horse prances on the sign. 

Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode 
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 
Went rushing down the county road, 

And skeletons of leaves, and dust, 

A moment quickened by its breath, 
Shuddered and danced their dance of 
death, 


And through the ancient oaks o’erhead 
Mysterious voices moaned and fled. 

But from the parlor of the inn 
A pleasant murmur smote the ear, 

Like water rushing through a weir; 

Oft interrupted by the din 
Of laughter and of loud applause, 

And, in each intervening pause, 

The music of a violin. 

The fire-light, shedding over all 
The splendor of its ruddy glow, 

Filled the whole parlor large and low ; 

It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, 

It touched with more than wonted grace 
Fair Princess Mary’s pictured face ; 

It bronzed the rafters overhead, 

On the old spinet’s ivory keys 
It played inaudible melodies, 

It crowned the sombre clock with flame, 
The hands, the hours, the maker’s name, 
And painted with a livelier red 
The Landlord’s coat-of-arms again ; 

And, flashing on the window-pane, 
Emblazoned with its light and shade 
The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 

Writ near a century ago, 

By the great Major Molineaux, 

Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. 

Before the blazing fire of wood 
Erect the rapt musician stood ; 

And ever and anon he bent 
His head upon his instrument, 

And seemed to listen, till he caught 
Confessions of its secret thought, — 

The joy, the triumph, the lament, 

The exultation and the pain ; 

Then, by the magic of his art, 

He soothed the throbbings of its heart, 
And lulled it into peace again. 

Around the fireside at their ease 
There sat a group of friends, entranced 
With the delicious melodies ; 

Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 





THE WAYSIDE INN. 413 


To rest beneath its old oak-trees. 

The fire-light on their faces glanced, 

Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and 
speech, 

Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays, 

Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

But first the Landlord will I trace : 

Grave in his aspect and attire ; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he, 

Known in all Sudbury as “ The Squire.” 
Proud was he of his name and race, 

Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlor, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 
Upon the wall in colors blazed ; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field, 

With three wolf’s heads, and for the 
crest 

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 
Upon a helmet barred ; below 
The scroll reads, “ By the name of 
Howe.” 

And over this, no longer bright, 

Though glimmering with a latent light, 
Was hung the sword his grandsire bore 
In the rebellious days of yore, 

Down there at Concord in the fight. 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 

A Student of old books and days, 

To whom all tongues and lands were 
known 

And yet a lover of his own ; 

With many a social virtue graced, 

And yet a friend of solitude ; 

A man of such a genial mood 
The heart of all things he embraced, 

And yet of such fastidious taste, 

He never found the best too good. 

Books were his passion and delight, 

And in his upper room at home 
Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, 
In vellum bound, with gold bedight, 
Great volumes garmented in white, 


Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 

He loved the twilight that surrounds 
The border-land of old romance ; 

Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, 
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, 
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, 

And mighty warriors sweep along, 
Magnified by the purple mist, 

The dusk of centuries and of song. 

The chronicles of Charlemagne, 

Of Merlin and the Mort d’Arthure, 
Mingled together in his brain 
With tales of Floi'es and Blanchefleur, 

Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 

Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 

Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. 

A young Sicilian, too, was there ; 

In sight of Etna born and bred, 

Some breath of its volcanic air 
Was glowing in his heart and brain, 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo’s fatal siege, 

Across the western seas he fled, 

In good King Bomba’s happy reign. 

His face was like a summer night, 

All flooded with a dusky light ; 

His hands were small; his teeth shone 
white 

As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke ; 
His sinews supple and strong as oak ; 
Clean shaven was he as a priest, 

Who at the mass on Sunday sings, 

Save that upon his upper lip 

His beard, a good palm’s length at least, 

Level and pointed at the tip, 

Shot sideways, like a swallow’s wings. 
The poets read he o’er and o’er, 

And most of all the Immortal Four 
Of Italy ; and next to those, 

The story-telling bard of prose, 

Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales 
Of the Decameron, that make 
Fiesole’s green hills and vales 
Remembered for Boccaccio’s sake. 

Much too of music was his thought; 

The melodies and measures fraught 
With sunshine and the open air, 

Of vineyards and the singing sea 
Of his beloved Sicily ; 

And much it pleased him to peruse 
The songs of the Sicilian muse, — 
Bucolic songs by Meli sung 









414 


TALES OF A WAYS/DE INN. 


In the familiar peasant tongue, 

That made men say, “ Behold ! once more 
The pitying gods to earth restore 
Theocritus of Syracuse ! ” 

A Spanish Jew from Alicant 

With aspect grand and grave was there ; 

Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 


Through the Moluccas, and the seas 
That wash the shores of Celebes. 

All stories that recorded are 
By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, 
And it was rumored he could say 
The Parables of Sandabar, 

And all the Fables of Pilpay, 

Or if not all, the greater part! 



And attar of rose from the Levant. 

Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 
Abraham or Isaac, or at least 
Some later Prophet or High-Priest; 
With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, 

And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, 
The tumbling cataract of his beard. 

His garments breathed a spicy scent 
Of cinnamon and sandal blent, 

Like the soft aromatic gales 
That meet the mariner, who sails 


Well versed was he in Hebrew books, 
Talmud and Targum, and the lore 
Of Kabala ; and evermore 
There was a mystery in his looks ; 

His eyes seemed gazing far away, 

As if in vision or in trance 
He heard the solemn sackbut play, 

And saw the Jewish maidens dance. 

A Theologian, from the school 
Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there ; 










































































THE WAYSIDE INN. 415 


Skilful alike with tongue and pen, 

He preached to all men everywhere 
The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 

The New Commandment given to men, 
Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 
Would help us in our utmost need. 

With reverent feet the earth he trod, 

Nor banished nature from his plan, 

But studied still with deep research 
To build the Universal Church, 

Lofty as is the love of God, 

And ample as the wants of man. 

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 
Was tender, musical, and ters£ ; 

The inspiration, the delighf, 

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, 

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 
The revelations of a dream, 

All these were his ; but with them came 
No envy of another’s fame ; 

He did not find his sleep less sweet 
For music in some neighboring street, 
Nor rustling hear in every breeze 
The laurels of Miltiades. 

Honor and blessings on his head 
While living, good report when dead, 
Who, not too eager for renown, 

Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown ! 

Last the Musician, as he stood 
Illumined by that fire of wood ; 
Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 
His figure tall and straight and lithe, 

And every feature of his face 
Revealing his Norwegian race ; 

A radiance, streaming from within, 
Around his eyes and forehead beamed, 
The Angel with the violin, 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 

He lived in that ideal world 
Whose language is not speech, but 
song; 

Around him evermore the throng 
Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; 
The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled 
Its headlong waters from the height; 
And mingled in the wild delight 
The scream of sea-birds in their flight, 
The rumor of the forest trees, 

The plunge of the implacable seas, 

The tumult of the wind at night, 

Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, 


Old ballads, and wild melodies 
Through mist and darkness pouring 
forth, 

Like Elivagar’s river flowing 
Out the glaciers of the North. 

The instrument on which he played 
Was in Cremona’s workshops made, 

By a great master of the past, 

Ere yet was lost the art divine ; 
Fashioned of maple and of pine, 

That in Tyrolian forests vast 
Had rocked and wrestled with the 
blast: 

Exquisite was it in design, 

Perfect in each minutest part, 

A marvel of the lutist’s art ; 

And in its hollow chamber, thus, 

The maker from whose hands it came 
Had written his unrivalled name, — 
“Antonius Stradivarius.” 

And when he played, the atmosphere 
Was filled with magic, and the ear 
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 
Whose music had so weird a sound, 

The hunted stag forgot to bound, 

The leaping rivulet backward rolled, 

The birds came down from bush and 
tree, 

The dead came from beneath the sea, 
The maiden to the harper’s knee ! 

The music ceased; the applause was 
loud, 

The pleased musician smiled and bowed ; 
The wood-fire clapped its hands of 
flame, 

The shadows on the wainscot stirred, 
And from the harpsichord there came 
A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 

A sound like that sent down at night 
By birds of passage in their flight, 

From the remotest distance heard. 

Then silence followed ; then began 
A clamor for the Landlord’s tale, — 

The story promised them of old, 

They said, but always left untold; 

And he, although a bashful man, 

And all his courage seemed to fail, 
Finding excuse of no avail, 

Yielded ; and thus the story ran. 







416 TALES OF A WAYS WE INN. 

THE LANDLORD’S TALE. 

To the belfry-chamber overhead, 

PAUL REVERE’S RIDE. 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that round him 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

made 

Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

Bv the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 

To the highest window in the wall, 

five ; 

Where he paused to listen and look 

Hardly a man is now alive 

down 

Who remembers that famous day and 

A moment on the roofs of the town, 

year. 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

He said to his friend, “ If the British 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 

march 

In their night encampment on the hill, 

By land or sea from the town to-night, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 

That he could hear, like a sentinel’s 

Of the North Church tower as a signal 

tread, 

light, — 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And I on the opposite shore will be, 

And seeming to whisper, “ All is well ! ” 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Through every Middlesex village and 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret 

farm, 

dread 

For the country-folk to be up and to 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 

arm.” 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

Then he said, “ Good night! ” and with 

On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the 

muffled oar 

bay — 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

A line of black that bends and floats 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 

A phantom ship, with each mast and 

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 

spar 

On the opposite shore walked Paul Re- 

Across the moon like a prison bar, 

vere. 

And a huge black hulk, that was magni- 

Now he patted his horse’s side, 

fied 

Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and 

And turned and tightened his saddle- 
girth ; 

street, 

But mostly he watched with eager search 

Wanders and watches with eager ears, 

The belfry tower of the Old North 

Till in the silence around him he hears 

Church, 

The muster of men at the barrack door, 

As it rose above the graves on the hill, 

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 

And the measured tread of the grena- 

And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry’s 

diers, 

height 

Marching down to their boats on the 

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 

shore. 

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old 

turns, 

But lingers and gazes, till full on his 

North Church, 

sight 

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 

A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 






PAUL R EVE RE'S RIDE. 


417 


A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 
dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass¬ 
ing, a spark 


Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 
fleet : 

That was all ! And yet, through the 
gloom and the light, 

The fate of a nation was riding that 
night; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, 
in his flight, 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the 
steep, 

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 
deep, 

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 

27 


And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the 
ledge, 

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he 
rides. 


It was twelve by the village clock 
When he crossed the bridge into Med¬ 
ford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer’s dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog, 

That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington, 

He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank 
and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 



















































418 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord 
town. 


Who that day would be lying dead, 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you 
have read, 

How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 



He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 


How the farmers gave them ball for 
ball, 

From behind each fence and farm-yard 
wall, 

Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 

Then crossing the fields to emerge again 






































THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 419 

Under the trees at the turn of the road, 

And he was speechless with surprise 

And only pausing to fire and load. 

To see Sir William’s plumed head 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

Brought to a level with the rest, 

And made the subject of a jest. 

And so through the night went his cry of 

And this perceiving, to appease 

alarm 

The Landlord’s wrath, the others’ fears, 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

The Student said, with careless ease, 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

“ The ladies and the cavaliers, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 

The arms, the loves, the courtesies, 

door, 

The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! 

And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 

Thus Ariosto says, in words 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

That have the stately stride and ring 

Through all our history, to the last, 

Of armed knights and clashing swords. 

In the hour of darkness and peril and 

Now listen to the tale I bring ; 

need, 

Listen ! though not to me belong 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The flowing draperies of his song, 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 

The words that rouse, the voice that 

And the midnight message of Paul Re- 

charms. 

vere. 

The Landlord’s tale was one of arms, 

INTERLUDE. 

Only a tale of love is mine, 

Blending the human and divine, 

A tale of the Decameron, told 

The Landlord ended thus his tale, 

In Palmieri’s garden old, 

By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, 

Then rising took down from its nail 

While her companions lay around, 

The sword that hung there, dim with 

And heard the intermingled sound 

dust, 

Of airs that on their errands sped, 

And cleaving to its sheath with rust, 

And wild-birds gossiping overhead, 

And said, “ This sword was in the fight.” 

And lisp of leaves, and fountain’s fall, 

The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 

And her own voice more sweet than all, 

“ It is the sword of a good knight, 

Telling the tale, which, wanting these, 

Though homespun was his coat-of-mail ; 

Perchance may lose its power to please.” 

What matter if it be not named 

Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, 


Excalibar, or Aroundight, 

THE STUDENT’S TALE. 

Or other name the books record ? 

Your ancestor, who bore this sword 

THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 

As Colonel of the Volunteers, 

Mounted upon his old gray mare, 

One summer morning, when the sun was 

Seen here and there and everywhere, 

hot, 

To me a grander shape appears 

Weary with labor in his garden-plot, 

Than old Sir William, or what not, 

On a rude bench beneath his cottage 

Clinking about in foreign lands 

eaves, 

With iron gauntlets on his hands, 

Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 

And on his head an iron pot k” 

Of a huge vine, that, with its arms out- 

All laughed ; the Landlord’s face grew 

spread, 

Hung its delicious clusters overhead. 

red 

Below him, through the lovely valley, 

As his escutcheon on the wall ; 

flowed 

He could not comprehend at all 

The river Arno, like a winding road, 

The drift of what the Poet said ; 

And from its banks were lifted high in air 

For those who had been longest dead 

The spires and roofs of Florence called 

Were always greatest in his eyes ; 

the Fair ; 







420 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


To him a marble tomb, that rose above 

His wasted fortunes and his buried 
love. 

For there, in banquet and in tourna¬ 
ment, 

His wealth had lavished been, his sub¬ 
stance spent, 

To woo and lose, since ill his wooing 
sped, 

Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, 


The brazen knocker of his palace door, 
Had now no strength to lift the wooden 
latch, 

That entrance gave beneath a roof of 
thatch. 

Companion of his solitary ways, 

Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, 

On him this melancholy man bestowed 
The love with which his nature over¬ 
flowed. 



Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, 
The ideal woman of a young man’s dream. 

Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, 
To this small farm, the last of his domain, 
His only comfort and his only care 
To prune his vines, and plant the fig and 
pear ; 

His only forester and only guest 
His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, 
Whose willing hands had found so light 
of yore 


And so the empty-handed years went 
round, 

Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic 
sound, 

And so, that summer morn, he sat and 
mused 

With folded, patient hands, as he was 
used, 

And dreamily before his half-closed 
sight 

Floated the vision of his lost delight. 

Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird 















































































THE FALCON OF 

SER FEDERIGO. 42 1 

Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber 

And feel the sea beneath them sink and 

heard 

lift, 

The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, 

And hear far off the mournful breakers 

that dare 

roar, 

The headlong plunge through eddying 

And voices calling faintly from the 

gulfs of a’ir, 

shore ! 

Then, starting broad awake upon his 

Then, waking from his pleasant reveries, 

perch, 

He took the little boy upon his knees, 

Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a 

And told him stories of his gallant bird, 

church, 

Till in their friendship he became a third. 

And, looking at his master, seemed to 
say, 

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, 

“ Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ? ” 

Had come with friends to pass the sum- 

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase ; 

mer-time 

The tender vision of her lovely face, 

In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, 

I will not say he seems to see, he sees 

O’erlooking Florence, but retired and 

In the leaf shadows of the trellises, 

still ; 

Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child 

With iron gates, that opened through 

With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and 

long lines 

wild, 

Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, 

Coming undaunted up the garden walk, 

And terraced gardens, and broad steps 

And looking not at him, but at the hawk. 

of stone, 

“ Beautiful falcon ! ” said he, “ would 

And sylvan deities, with moss o’ergrown, 

that I 

And fountains palpitating in the heat, 

Might hold thee on my wrist or see thee 

And all Val d’Arno stretched beneath its 

fly !” 

feet. 

The voice was hers, and made strange 

Here in seclusion, as a widow may, 

echoes start 

The lovely lady whiled the hours away, 

Through all the haunted chambers of his 

Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, 

heart, 

Herself the stateliest statue among all, 

As an aeolian harp through gusty doors 

And seeing more and more, with secret 

Of some old ruin its wild music pours. 

joy, 

“ Who is thy mother, my fair boy ? ” he 

Her husband risen and living in her boy, 

Till the lost sense of life returned again, 

said, 

Not as delight, but as relief from pain. 

His hand laid softly on that shining 

Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his 

head. 

strength, 

“ Monna Giovanna. Will you let me 

Stormed down the terraces from length 

stay 

to length ; 

A little while, and with your falcon 

The screaming peacock chased in hot 

play ? 

pursuit, 

We live there, just beyond your garden 

And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. 

wall, 

But his chief pastime was to watch the 

In the great house behind the poplars 

flight 

tall.” 

Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, 


Beyond the trees that fringed the garden 

So he spake on ; and Federigo heard 

wall, 

As from afar each softly uttered word, 

Then downward stooping at some distant 

And drifted onward through the golden 

Call : 

gleams 

And as he gazed full often wondered he 

And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, 

Who might the master of the falcon be, 

As mariners becalmed through vapors 

Until that happy morning, when he found 

drift, 

Master and falcon in the cottage ground. 






422 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And now a shadow and a terror fell 

Passed through the garden gate into the 

On the great house, as if a passing-bell 

wood, 

Tolled from the tower, and filled each 

Under the lustrous leaves, and through 

spacious room 

the sheen 

With secret awe, and preternatural 

Of dewy sunshine showering down be- 

gloom ; 

tween. 

The petted boy grew ill, and day by day 

The one, close-hooded, had the attractive 

Pined with mysterious malady away. 

grace 

The mother’s heart would not be com- 

Which sorrow sometimes lends a worn- 

forted ; 

an’s face ; 

Her darling seemed to her already dead, 

Her dark eyes moistened with the mists 

And often, sitting by the suffer'er’s side, 

that roll 

“ What can I do to comfort thee ? ” she 

From the gulf-stream of passion in the 

cried. 

soul ; 

At first the silent lips made no reply, 

The other with her hood thrown back, 

But, moved at length by her importunate 

her hair 

cry, 

Making a golden glory in the air, 

“ Give me,” he answered, with imploring 

Her cheeks suffused with an auroral 

tone, 

blush, 

“ Ser Federigo’s falcon for my own ! ” 

Her young heart singing louder than the 
thrush. v. 

No answer could the astonished mother 

So walked, that morn, through mingled 

make ; 

light and shade, 

How could she ask, e’en for her darling’s 

Each by the other’s presence lovelier 

sake, 

made, 

Such favor at a luckless lover’s hand, 

Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, 

Well knowing that to ask was to com- 

Intent upon their errand and its end. 

mand ? 


Well knowing, what all falconers con- 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil, 

fessed, 

Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; 

In all the land that falcon was the best, 

And when he looked and these fair 

The master’s pride and passion and de- 

women spied, 

light, 

The garden suddenly was glorified ; 

And the sole pursuivant of this poor 

His long-lost Eden was restored again, 

knight. 

And the strange river winding through 

But yet, for her child’s sake, she could no 

the plain 

less 

No longer was the Arno to his eyes, 

Than give assent, to soothe his restless- 

But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! 

ness, 


So promised, and then promising to keep 

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, 

Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. 

And with fair words of salutation said : 

“ Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, 

The morrow was a bright September 

Hoping in this to make some poor 

morn ; 

amends 

The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; 

For past unkindness. I who ne’er before 

There was that nameless splendor every- 

Would even cross the threshold of your 

• where, 

door, 

That wild exhilaration in the air, 

I who in happier days such pride main- 

Which makes the passers in the city 

tained, 

street 

Refused your banquets, and your gifts 

Congratulate each other as they meet. 

disdained, 

Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and 

This morning come, a self-invited guest, 

hood, 

To put your generous nature to the test, 






THE TALC OH OF SEE EE DEE/GO. 


423 


And breakfast with you under your own 
vine.” 

To which he answered : “ Poor desert of 
mine, 

Not your unkindness call it, for if aught 


He looked about him for some means or 
way 

To keep this unexpected holiday ; 
Searched every cupboard, and then 
searched again, 



Is good in me of feeling or of thought, 
From you it comes, and this last grace 
outweighs 

All sorrows, all regrets of other days.” 

And after further compliment and talk, 
Among the dahlias in the garden walk 
He left his guests; and to # his cottage 
turned, 

And as he entered for a moment yearned 
For the lost splendors of the days of 
old, 

The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, 
And felt how piercing is the sting of 
pride, 

By want embittered and intensified. 


Summoned the maid, who came, but 
came in vain : 

“The Signor" did not hunt to-day,” she 
said, 

“ There’s nothing in the house but wine 
and bread.” 

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 

His little bells, with that sagacious 
look, 

Which said, as plain as language to the 
ear, 

“ If anything is wanting, I am here ! ” 

Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! 

The master seized thee without further 
word, 












































424 


TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 


Like thine own lure, he whirled thee 
round ; ah me ! 

The pomp and flutter of brave fal¬ 
conry, 

The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet 
hood, 

The flight and the pursuit o’er field and 
wood, 

All these forevermore are ended now ; 

No longer victor, but the victim thou ! 


Ser Federigo, would not these suffice 

Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves 
and spice ? 

When all was ready, and the courtly 
dame 

With her companion to the cottage 
came, 

Upon Ser Federigo’s brain there fell 

The wild enchantment of a magic spell! 


■V 



Then on the board a snow-white cloth he 
spread, 

Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of 
bread, 

Brought purple grapes with autumn sun¬ 
shine hot, 

The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; 

Then in the midst a flask of wine he 
placed, 

And with autumnal flowers the banquet 
graced. 


The room they entered, mean and low 
and small, 

Was changed into a sumptuous banquet- 
hall, 

With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; 

The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; 

He ate celestial food, and a divine 

Flavor was given to his country wine, 

And the poor falcon, fragrant with his 
spice, 

A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! 



























































































THE FALCON OF SFR FEDERIGO. 


When the repast was ended, they arose 

And passed again into the garden-close. 

Then said the lady, “ Far too well I 
know, 

Remembering, still the days of long ago, 

Though you betray it not, with what sur¬ 
prise 

You see me here in this familiar wise. 

You have no children, and you cannot 
guess 


Which if you find it in your heart to 
give, 

My poor, unhappy boy perchance may 
live.” 

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, 

With tears of love and pity in his eyes : 

“ Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task 
So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. 
One little hour ago, if I had known 



What anguish, what unspeakable dis¬ 
tress 

A mother feels, whose child is lying 
ill, 

Nor how her heart anticipates his will. 

And yet for this, you see me lay aside 

All womanly reserve and check of pride, 

And ask the thing most precious in your 
sight, 

Your falcon, your sole comfort and de¬ 
light, 


This wish of yours, it would have been 
my own. 

But thinking in what manner I could 
best 

Do honor to the presence of my guest, 

I deemed that nothing worthier could be 

Than what most dear and precious was 
to me, 

And so my gallant falcon breathed his 
last 

To furnish forth this morning our repast.” 







































































































426 7 ALES OF A WAYS WE INN. 


In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, 
The gentle lady turned her eyes away, 
Grieving that he such sacrifice should 
make, 

And kill his falcon for a woman’s sake, 
Yet feeling in her heart a woman’s pride, 
That nothing she could ask for was 
denied ; 

Then took her leave, and passed out at 
the gate 

With footstep slow and soul disconso¬ 
late. 

Three days went by, and lo ! a passing- 
bell 

Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; 
Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and 
said, 

Breathing a prayer, “ Alas ! her child is 
dead ! ” 

Three months went by; and lo! a 
merrier chime 

Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas¬ 
time ; 

The cottage was deserted, and no more 
Ser Federigo sat beside its door, 

But now, with servitors to do his will, 

In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, 
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side 
Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, 
Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, 
Enthroned once more in the old rustic 
chair, 

High-perched upon the back of which 
there stood 

The image of a falcon carved in wood, 
And underneath the inscription, with a 
date, 

“ All things come round to him who will 
but wait.” 


INTERLUDE. 

Soon as the story x'eached its end, 

One, over eager to commend, 

Crowned it with injudicious praise ; 

And then the voice of blame found vent, 
And fanned the embers of dissent 
Into a somewhat lively blaze. 

The Theologian shook his head ; 

“ These old Italian tales,” he said, 


“ From the much-praised Decameron 
down 

Through all the rabble of the rest, 

Are either trifling, dull, or lewd ; 

The gossip of a neighborhood 
In some remote provincial town, 

A scandalous chronicle at best ! 

They seem to me a stagnant fen, 

Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 
Where a white lily, now and then, 

Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds 
And deadly nightshade on its banks.” 

To this the Student straight replied, 

“ For the white lily, many thanks ! 

One should not say, with too much 
pride, 

Fountain, I will not drink of thee ! 

Nor were it grateful to forget, 

That from these reservoirs and tanks 
Even imperial Shakespeare drew 
Flis Moor of Venice, and the Jew, 

And Romeo and Juliet, 

And many a famous comedy.” 

Then a long pause ; till some one said, 

“ An Angel is flying overhead ! ” 

At these words spake the Spanish Jew, 
And murmured with an inward breath ; 

“ God grant, if what you say be true, 

It may not be the Angel of Death ! ” 

And then another pause ; and then, 
Stroking his beard, he said again : 

“ This brings back to my memory 
A story in the Talmud told, 

That book of gems, that book of gold, 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often comes to me, 

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, 
And never wearies nor grows old ” 

THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE. 

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read 
A volume of the Law, in which it said, 
“No man shall look upon my face and 
live.” 

And as he read, he prayed that God 
would give 





THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 


427 


His faithful servant grace with mortal 
eye 

To look upon His face and yet not die. 

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, 
And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with 
age, 



He saw the Angel of Death before him 
stand, 

Holding a naked sword in his right hand. 

Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, 

Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. 

With trembling voice he said, “What 
wilt thou here ? ” 

The Angel answered, “ Lo ! the time 
draws near 


When thou must die ; yet first, by God’s 
decree, 

Whate’er thou askest shall be granted 
thee.” 

Replied the Rabbi, “ Let these living 
eyes 

First look upon my place in Paradise.” 



Then said the Angel, “Come with me 
and look.” 

Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, 

And rising, and uplifting his gray head, 

“ Give me thy sword,” he to the Angel 
said, 

“ Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the 
way.” 

The Angel smiled and hastened to obey, 


















































428 TALES OF A 

WAYSIDE INN. 

Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, 

No human eye shall look on it again ; 

And set him on the wall, whence, gazing 

But when thou takest away the souls of 

down, 

men, 

Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, 

Thyself unseen, and with an unseen 

Might look upon his place in Paradise. 

sword, 

Then straight into the city of the Lord 

Thou wilt perform the bidding of the 
Lord.” 

The Rabbi leaped with the Death- 

The Angel took the sword again, and 

Angel’s sword, 

swore, 

And through the streets there swept a 

And walks on earth unseen forevermore. 

sudden breath 

Of something there unknown, which men 
call death. 

INTERLUDE. 

Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and 
cried, 

He ended : and a kind of spell 

“Come back! ” To which the Rabbi’s 

Upon the silent listeners fell. 

voice replied, 

His solemn manner and his words 

“ No ! in the name of God, whom I 

Had touched the deep, mysterious chords, 

adore, 

That vibrate in each human breast 

T swear that hence I will depart no 

Alike, but not alike confessed. 

more ! ” 

The spiritual world seemed near ; 

Then all the Angels cried, “ O Holy 

And close above them, full of fear, 

Its awful adumbration passed, 

One, 

A luminous shadow, vague and vast. 

See what the son of Levi here hath done ! 

They almost feared to look, lest there, 

The kingdom of Heaven he takes by 

Embodied from the impalpable air, 

violence, 

They might behold the Angel stand, 

And in Thy name refuses to go hence ! ” 

Holding the sword in his right hand. 

The Lord replied, “ My Angels, be not 
wroth; 

At last, but in a voice subdued, 

Did e’er the son of Levi break his oath ? 

Not to disturb their dreamy mood, 

Let him remain ; for he with mortal eye 

Said the Sicilian : “ While you spoke, 

Shall look upon my face and yet not die.” 

Telling your legend marvellous, 

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of 

Suddenly in my memory woke 

The thought of one, now gone from us, — 

Death 

An old Abate, meek and mild, 

Heard the great voice, and said, with 

My friend and teacher, when a child, 

panting breath, 

Who sometimes in those days of old 

“ Give back the sword, and let me go my 

The legend of an Angel told, 

way.” 

Which ran, as I remember, thus.” 

Whereat the Rabbi paused, and an¬ 
swered, “Nay ! 

Anguish enough already has it caused 

THE SICILIAN’S TALE. 

Among the sons of men.” And while he 


paused 

KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 

He heard the awful mandate of the Lord 
Resounding through the air, “ Give back 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Ur- 

the sword ! ” 

bane 

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent 

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Apparelled in magnificent attire, 

prayer; 

With retinue of many a knight and 

Then said he to the dreadful Angel, 

squire, 

“ Swear, 

On St. John’s eve, at vespers, proudly sat 








KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 429 

And heard the priests chant the Mag- 

Came with his lantern, asking, “ Who is 

nificat. 

there ? ” 

And as he listened, o’er and o’er again 

Half choked with rage, King Robert 

Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 

fiercely said, 

He caught the words, “ Deposuit potentes 

“ Open : ’t is I, the King ! Art thou 

De sede, et exaltavit humiles ; ” 

afraid ? ” 

And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 

The frightened sexton, muttering, with a 

He to a learned clerk beside him said, 

curse, 

“ What mean these words ? ” The clerk 

“ This is some drunken vagabond, or 

made answer meet, 

worse ! ” 

“ He has put down the mighty from their 

Turned the great key and flung the por- 

seat, 

tal wide ; 

And*has exalted them of low degree.” 

A man rushed by him at a single stride, 

Thereat King Robert muttered scorn- 

Haggard, half naked, without hat or 

fully, 

cloak, 

“ ’T is well that such seditious words are 

Who neither turned, nor looked at him, 

sung 

nor spoke, 

Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 

But leaped into the blackness of the 

For unto priests and people be it known, 

night, 

There is no power can push me from my 

And vanished like a spectre from his 

throne ! ” 

sight. 

And leaning back, he yawned, and fell 
asleep, 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

Lulled by the chant monotonous and 

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

deep. 

Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 

When he awoke it was already night; 

Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent 
with mire, 

The church was empty, and there was no 

With sense of wrong and outrage des- 

light, 

perate 

Save where the lamps, that glimmered 

Strode on and thundered at the palace 

few and faint, 

gate ; 

Lighted a little space before some saint. 

Rushed through the court-yard, thrust- 

He started from his seat and gazed around, 

ing in his rage 

But saw no living thing and heard no 

To right and left each seneschal and page, 

sound. 

And hurried up the broad and sounding 

He groped towards the door, but it was 

stair, 

locked; * 

His white face ghastly in the torches’ 

He cried aloud, and listened, and then 

glare. 

knocked, 

From hall to hall he passed with breath- 

And uttered awful threatenings and com- 

less speed ; 

plaints, 

Voices and cries he heard, but did not 

And imprecations upon men and saints. 

heed, 

The sounds re-echoed from the roof and 

Until at last he reached the banquet- 

walls 

room, 

As if dead priests were laughing in their 

Blazing with light, and breathing with 

stalls. 

perfume. 

At length the sexton, hearing from with- 

There on the dais sat another king, 

out 

Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet- 

The tumult of the knocking and the 

ring, 

shout, 

King Robert’s self in features, form, and 

And thinking thieves were in the house 

height, 

of prayer, 

But all transfigured with angelic light ! 






43° TALES OF A 

WAYSIDE INN. 

It was an Angel; and his presence there 

But the straw rustled as he turned his 

With a divine effulgence filled the air, 

head, 

An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 

There were the cap and bells beside his 

Though none the hidden Angel recog- 

bed, 

nize. 

Around him rose the bare, discolored 


walls, 

A moment speechless, motionless, 

Close by, the steeds were champing in 

amazed, 

their stalls, 

The throneless monarch on the Angel 

And in the corner, a revolting shape, 

gazed, 

Shivering and chattering sat the wretched 

Who met his look of anger and surprise 

ape. 

With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 

It was no dream ; the world he loved so 

Then said, “ Who art thou ? and why 

much 

com’st thou here ? ” 

Had turned to dust and ashes at his 

To which King Robert answered, with a 

touch ! 

sneer, 


“ I am the King, and come to claim my 

Days came and went; and now returned 

own 

again 

From an impostor, who usurps my 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; 

throne ! ” 

Under the Angel’s governance benign 

And suddenly, at these audacious words, 

The happy island danced with corn and 

Up sprang the angry guests, and drew 

wine, 

their swords ; 

And deep within the mountain’s burning 

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 

breast 

“ Nay, not the King, but the King’s 

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Jester, thou 


Henceforth shalt wear the bells and seal- 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his 

loped cape, 

fate, 

And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 

Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 

Thou shalt obey my servants when they 

Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters 

call, 

wear, 

And w'ait upon my henchmen in the 

With look bewildered and a vacant stare, 

hall ! ” 

Close shaven above the ears, as monks 

Deaf to King Robert’s threats and cries 

are shorn, 

By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to 

and prayers, 

scorn, 

They thrust him from the hall and down 

His only friend the ape, his only food 

the stairs ; 

What others left, — he still was unsub- 

A group of tittering pages ran before, 

dued. 

And as they opened wide the folding- 

And when the Angel met him on his way, 

door, 

And half in earnest, half in jest, would 

His heart failed, for he heard, with 

say, 

strange alarms, 

Sternly, though tenderly, that he might 

The boisterous laughter of the men-at- 

feel 

arms, 

The velvet scabbard held a sword of 

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 

steel, 

With the mock plaudits of “ Long live 

“ Art thou the King ? ” the passion of his 

the King ! ” 

woe 

Next morning, waking with the day’s 

Burst from him in resistless overflow, 

And, lifting high his forehead, he would 

first beam, 

fling 

He said within himself, “ It was a 

The haughty answer back, “ I am, I am 

dream ! ” 

the King ! ” 







KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 431 

Almost three years were ended; when 

Robert, your brother, King of Sicily ! 

there came 

This man, who wears my semblance to 

Ambassadors of great repute and name 

your eyes, 

From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Is an imposter in a king’s disguise. 

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope 

Do you not know me ? does no voice 

U rbane 

within 

By letter summoned them forthwith to 

Answer my cry, and say we are akin ? ” 

come 

The Pope in silence, but with troubled 

On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 

mien, 

The Angel with great joy received his 

Gazed at the Angel’s countenance se- 

guests, 

rene ; 

And gave them presents of embroidered 

The Emperor, laughing, said, “ It is 

vests, 

strange sport 

And velvet mantles with rich ermine 

To keep a madman for thy Fool at 

lined, 

court! ” 

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 

And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 

Then he departed with them o’er the sea 
Into the lovely land of Italy, 

Was hustled back among the populace. 

Whose loveliness was more resplendent 

In solemn state the Holy Week went 

made 

b y> 

By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the 

With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, 

sky; 

and the stir 

The presence of the Angel, with its light, 

Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 

And with new fervor filled the hearts of 

And lo ! among tbe menials, in mock 

men, 

state, 

Who felt that Christ indeed had risen 

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling 

again. 

gait, 

Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, 

Plis cloak of fox-tails flapping in the 

With haggard eyes the unwonted splen- 

wind, 

dor saw, 

The solemn ape demurely perched be- 

He felt within a power unfelt before, 

hind, 

And, kneeling humbly on his chamber 

King Robert rode, making huge merri- 

floor, 

ment 

He heard the rushing garments of the 

In all the country towns through which 

Lord 

they went. 

The Pope received them with great pomp 

Sweep through the silent air, ascending 
heavenward. 

and blare 

And now the visit ending, and once 

Of bannered trumpets, .on Saint Peter’s 

more 

square, 

Valmond returning to the Danube’s 

Giving his benediction and embrace, 

shore, 

Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 

Homeward the Angel journeyed, and 

While with congratulations and with 

again 

prayers 

The land was made resplendent with his 

He entertained the Angel unawares, 

train 

Robert, the Jester, bursting through the 

Flashing along the towns of Italy 

crowd, 

Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 

Into their presence rushed, and cried 

And when once more within Palermo’s 

aloud, 

wall 

“ I am the King ! Look, and behold in 

And, seated on the throne in his great 

me 

hall, 







432 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


He heard the Angelus from convent 
towers, 

As if the better world conversed with 
ours, 

He beckoned to King Robert to draw 
nigher, 

And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 

And when they were alone, the Angel 
said, 

“ Art thou the King ? ” Then, bowing 
down his head, 


The Angel smiled, and from his radiant 
face 

A holy light illumined all the place, 

And through the open window, loud and 
clear, 

They heard the monks chant in the 
chapel near, 

Above the stir and tumult of the street: 

“ He has put down the mighty from their 
seat, 

And has exalted them of low degree ! ” 



King Robert crossed both hands upon his 
breast, 

And meekly answered him : “ Thou 

knowest best! 

My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 

And in some cloister’s school of peni¬ 
tence, 

Across those stones, that pave the way to 
heaven, 

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be 
shriven ! ” 


And through the chant a second melody 
Rose like the throbbing of a single string : 
“ I am an Angel, and thou art the 
King! ” 

King Robert, who was standing near the 
throne, 

Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 
But all apparelled as in days of old, 

With ermined mantle and with cloth of 
gold ; 







































































THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 433 

And when his courtiers came, they found 

This is my hammer, 

him there 

Miolner the mighty; 

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in si- 

Giants and sorcerers 

lent prayer. 

Cannot withstand it ! 

These are the gauntlets 

INTERLUDE. 

Wherewith I wield it, 

And hurl it afar off; 

And then the blue-eyed Norseman told 

This is my girdle ; 

A Saga of the days of old. 

Whenever I brace it, 

“ There is,” said he, “ a wondrous book 

Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, 

Strength is redoubled ! 

Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 

The light thou beholdest 

Legends that once were told or sung 

Stream through the heavens, 

In many a smoky fireside nook 

In flashes of crimson, 

Of Iceland, in the ancient day, 

Is but my red beard 

By wandering Saga-man or Scald ; 

Blown by the night-wind, 

Heimskringla is the volume called ; 

And he who looks may find therein 

Affrighting the nations ! 

The story that I now begin.” 

Jove is my brother ; 

Mine eyes are the lightning ; 

And in each pause the story made 

The wheels of my chariot 

Upon his violin he played, 

Roll in the thunder, 

As an appropriate interlude, 

The blows of my hammer 

Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 

That bound in one the separate runes, 

Ring in the earthquake ! 

And held the mind in perfect mood, 

Force rules the world still, 

Entwining and encircling all 

Has ruled it, shall rule it; 

The strange and antiquated rhymes 

Meekness is weakness, 

With melodies of olden times ; 

Strength is triumphant, 

As over some half-ruined wall 

Over the whole earth 

Disjointed and about to fall, 

Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, 

Still is it Thor’s-Day ! 

And keep the loosened stones in place. 

Thou art a God too, 

O Galilean ! 

And thus single-handed 

THE MUSICIAN’S TALE. 

Unto the combat, 

Gauntlet or Gospel, 

THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

Here I defy thee ! 

11. 

I. 

THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. 

KING OLAF’S RETURN. 

I am the God Thor, 

And King Olaf heard the cry, 

I am the War God, 

Saw the red light in the sky, 

I am the Thunderer ! 

Laid his hand upon his sword, 

Here in my Northland, 

As he leaned upon the railing, 

My fastness and fortress, 

And his ships went sailing, sailing 

Reign I forever ! 

Northward into Drontheim fiord. 

Here amid icebergs 

There he stood as one who dreamed ; 

Rule I the nations ; 

28 

And the red light glanced and gleamed 






434 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


On the armor that he wore ; 

And he shouted, as the rifted 
Streamers o’er him shook and shifted, 

“ I accept thy challenge, Thor ! ” 

To avenge his father slain, 

And reconquer realm and reign, 

Came the youthful Olaf home, 
Through the midnight sailing, sailing, 
Listening to the wild wind’s wailing, 

And the dashing of the foam. 

To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came, 

And the tale she oft had told 
Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and morasses, 
To the home of Hakon old. 

Then strange memories crowded back 
Of Queen Gunhild’s wrath and wrack, 
And a hurried flight by sea ; 

Of grim Vikings, and the rapture 
Of the sea-fight, and the capture, 

And the life of slavery. 

How a stranger watched his face 
In the Esthonian market-place, 

Scanned his features one by one, 
Saying, “ We should know each other ; 

I am Sigurd, Astrid’s brother, 

Thou art Olaf, Astrid’s son ! 

Then as Queen Allogia’s page, 

Old in honors, young in age, 

Chief of all her men-at-arms ; 

Till vague whispers, and mysterious, 
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 
Filling him with strange alarms. 

Then his cruisings o’er the seas, 
Westward to the Hebrides, 

And to Scilly’s rocky shore ; 

And the hermit’s cavern dismal, 

Christ’s great name and rites baptismal 
In the ocean’s rush and roar. 

All these thoughts of love and strife 
Glimmered through his lurid life, 

As the stars’ intenser light 
Through the red flames o’er him trailing, 
As his ships went sailing, sailing, 
Northward in the summer night. 


Trained for either camp or court, 

Skilful in each manly sport, 

Young and beautiful and tall ; 

Art of warfare, craft of chases, 
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, 
Excellent alike in all. 

When at sea, with all his rowers, 

He along the bending oars 
Outside of his ship could run. 

He the Smalsor Horn ascended, 

And his shining shield suspended 
On its summit, like a sun. 

On the ship-rails he could stand, 

Wield his sword with either hand, 

And at once two javelins throw ; 

At all feasts where ale was strongest 
Sat the merry monarch longest, 

First to come and last to go. 

Norway never yet had seen 
One so beautiful of mien, 

One so royal in attire 
When in arms completely furnished, 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 
Mantle like a flame of fire. 

Thus came Olaf to his own, 

When upon the night-wind blown 
Passed that cry along the shore ; 

And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers o’er him shook and shifted, 

“ I accept thy challenge, Thor ! ” 

III. 

THORA OF RIMOL. 

“ Thora of Rimol! hide me ! hide me ! 
Danger and shame and death betide me ! 
For Olaf the King.is hunting me down 
Through field and forest, through thorp 
and town ! ” 

Thus cried Jarl Hakon 
To Thora, the fairest of women. 

“ Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee 
Neither shall shame nor death come neai 
thee ! 

But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine in the 
sty.” 














THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 435 


Thus to Jarl Hakon 

Said Thora, the fairest of women. 

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 
Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon 
darker, 

As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, 
Through the forest roads into Orka- 
dale, 

Demanding Jarl Hakon 
Of Thora the fairest of women. 


At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, 

Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are 
swinging ; 

One is Jarl Hakon’s and one is his 
thrall’s, 

And the people are shouting from win¬ 
dows and walls ; 

While alone in her chamber 
Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. 

IV. 


“ Rich and honored shall be whoever 

The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever ! ” 

Hakon heard him, and Karker the 
slave, 

Through the breathing-holes of the 
darksome cave. 

Alone in her chamber 

Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 

Said Karker, the crafty, “ I will not slay 
thee ! 

For all the king’s gold I will never betray 
thee ! ” 

“ Then why dost thou turn so pale, O 
churl, 

And then again black as the earth ? ” 
said the Earl. 

More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of women. 

From a dream in the night the thrall 
started, saying, 

“ Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf 
was laying ! ” 

And Hakon answered, “ Beware of the 
king ! 

He will lay round thy neck a blood-red 
ring.” 

At the ring on her finger 
Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows 
encumbered, 

But screamed and drew up his feet as he 
slumbered ; 

The thrall in the darkness plunged with 
his knife, 

And the Earl awakened no more in this 
life. 

But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 


QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud 
and aloft 

In her chamber, that looked over mead¬ 
ow and croft. 

Heart’s dearest, 

Why dost thou sorrow so ? 

The floor with tassels of fir was besprent, 

Filling the room with their fragrant scent. 

She heard the birds sing, she saw the 
sun shine, 

The air of summer was sweeter than 
wine. 

Like a sword without scabbard the bright 
river lay 

Between her own kingdom and Norro- 
way. 

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, 

The sword would be sheathed, the river 
be spanned. 

Her maidens were seated around her 
knee, 

Working bright figures in tapestry. 

And one was singing the ancient rune 

Of Brynhilda’s love and the wrath of 
Gudrun. 

And through it, and round it, and over it 
all 

Sounded incessant the waterfall. 

The Queen in her hand held a ring ot 
gold, 

From the door of Lade’s Temple old. 


L- 







436 TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 

King Olaf had sent her this wedding 

“ Why, then, should I care to have 

gift, 

thee ? ” he said, — 

But her thoughts as arrows were keen 

“ A faded old woman, a heathenish 

and swift. 

jade ! ” 

She had given the ring to her goldsmiths 

His zeal was stronger than fear or 

twain, 

love, 

Who smiled, as they handed it back 

And he struck the Queen in the face with 

again. 

his glove. 

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty 

Then forth from the chamber in anger he 

way, 

fled, 

Said, “ Why do you smile, my gold- 

And the wooden stairway shook with his 

smiths, say ? ” 

tread. 

And they answered: “ 0 Queen ! if the 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under 

truth must be told, 

her breath, 

The ring is of copper, and not of gold ! ” 

“ This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy 
death ! ” 

The lightning flashed o’er her forehead 

Heart’s dearest, 

and cheek, 

Whv dost thou sorrow so ? 

She only murmured, she did not speak : 


“ If in his gifts he can faithless be, 

\ . 

There will be no gold in his love to me.” 

THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. 

A footstep was heard on the outer stair, 

Now from all King Olaf’s farms 

And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 

His men-at-arms 

Gathered on the Eve of Easter ; 

He kissed the Queen’s hand, and he 

To his house at Angvalds-ness 

whispered of love, 

Fast they press, 

And swore to be true as the stars are 

Drinking with the royal feaster. 

above. 

Loudly through the wide-flung door 

But she smiled with contempt as she 

Came the roar 

answered : “ 0 King, 

Of the sea upon the Skerry ; 

Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, 

And its thunder loud and near 

on the ring ? ” 

Reached the ear, 

Mingling with their voices merry. 

And the King : “ 0 speak not of Odin to 

me, 

“ Hark ! ” said Olaf to his Scald, 

The wife of King Olaf a Christian must 

Halfred the Bald, 

be.” 

“ Listen to that song, and learn it ! 

. 

Half my kingdom would I give, 

Looking straight at the King, with her 

As I live, 

level brows, 

If by such songs you would earn it ! 

She said, “ I keep true to my faith and 

my vows.” 

“ For of all the runes and rhymes 

Of all times, 

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened 

Best I like the ocean’s dirges, 

with gloom, 

When the old harper heaves and rocks, 

He rose in his anger and strode through 

His hoary locks 

the room. 

Flowing and flashing in the surges ! ” 






THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 


437 


Halfred answered : “ I am called 
The Unappalled ! 

Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, 0 King, 

While I sing 

The great Ocean Song that haunts 
me.” 

“ I will hear your song sublime 
Some other time,” 

Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, 

And retires ; each laughing guest 


Round and round the house they go, 
Weaving slow 
Magic circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 
Olaf the King, 

As he helpless lies in slumber. 

Then athwart the vapors dun 
The Easter sun 

Streamed with one broad track of splen^ 
dor ! 

In their real forms appeared 



Applauds the jest; 

Then they sleep till day is dawning. 

Pacing up and down the yard, 

King Olaf’s guard 
Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O’er the sands, and up the hill, 
Gathering still 

Round the house where they were sleep 
ing. 


The warlocks weird, 

Awful as the Witch of Endor. 

Blinded by the light that glared, 

They groped and stared 
Round about with steps unsteady ; 

From his window Olaf gazed, 

And, amazed, 

“ Who are these strange people ? ” said 
he. 


It was not the fog he saw, 

Nor misty flaw, 

That above the landscape brooded ; 
It was Eyvind Kallda’s crew 
Of warlocks blue 

With their caps of darkness hooded ! 


“ Eyvind Kallda and his men ! ” 
Answered then 

From the yard a sturdy farmer ; 
While the men-at-arms apace 
Filled the place, 

Busily buckling on their armor. 




























4 3 8 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


From the gates they sallied forth, 

South and north, 

Scoured the island coast around them, 
Seizing all the warlock band, 

Foot and hand 

On the Skerry’s rocks they bound them. 

And at eve the king again 
Called his train, 

And, with all the candles burning, 

Silent sat and heard once more 
The sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 

Shrieks and cries of wild despair 
Filled the air. 

Growing fainter as they listened ; 

Then the bursting surge alone 
Sounded on ; — 

Thus the sorcerers were christened ! 

“ Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, 

Your ocean-rhyme,” 

Cried King Olaf: “ it will cheer me ! ” 
Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, 

“ The Skerry of Shrieks 
Sings too loud for you to hear me ! ” 

vr. 

THE WRAITH OF ODIN. 

The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 
King Olaf feasted late and long; 

The hoary Scalds together sang ; 
O’erhead the smoky rafters rang, 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The door swung wide, with creak and 
din ; 

A blast of cold night-air came in, 

And on the threshold shivering stood 
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King exclaimed, “ O graybeard pale ! 
Come warm thee with this cup of ale.” 
The foaming draught the old man quaffed, 
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then spake the King : “ Be not afraid ; 
Sit here by me.” The guest obeyed, 


And, seated at the table, told 
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

And ever, when the tale was o’er, 

The King demanded yet one more ; 

Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, 

“ ’T is late, O King, and time for bed.” 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King retired ; the stranger guest 
Followed and entered with the rest; 

The lights were out, the pages gone, 

But still the garrulous guest spake on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

As one who from a volume reads, 

He spake of heroes and their deeds, 

Of lands and cities he had seen, 

And stormy gulfs that tossed between. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old, 

With sounds mysterious as the roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

“ Do we not learn from runes and rhymes 
Made by the gods in elder times, 

And do not still the great Scalds teach 
That silence better is than speech ? ” 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Smiling at this, the King replied, 

“ Thy lore is by thy tongue belied ; 

For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga-man or Scald.” 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The Bishop said, “ Late hours we keep ! 
Night wanes, O King! ’t is time for 
sleep ! ” 

Then slept the King, and when he 
woke 

The guest was gone, the morning broke. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

They found the doors securely barred, 
They found the watch-dog in the yard, 
There was no footprint in the grass, 

And none had seen the stranger pass. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 










THE SAGA OF KING OLAE 439 

King Olaf crossed himself and said : 

Huge and cumbersome was his frame ; 

“ I know that Odin the Great is dead; 

His beard, from which he took his 

Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 

name, 

The one-eyed stranger was his wraith.” 

Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Giant. 

VII. 

So at the Hus-Ting he appeared. 

IRON-BEARD. 

The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, 

On horseback, in an attitude defiant. 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 

And to King Olaf he cried aloud, 

Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, 

Out of the middle of the crowd, 

Sending his signal through the land of 

That tossed about him like a stormy 

Drontheim. 

ocean : 

And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 

“ Such sacrifices shalt thou bring : 

Gathered the farmers far and near, 

To Odin and to Thor, O King, 

With their war weapons ready to con- 

As other kings have done in their devo- 

front him. 

tion ! ” 

Ploughing under the morning star, 

King Olaf answered: “I command 

Old Iron-Beard in Yriar, 

This land to be a Christian land ; 

Heard the summons, chuckling with a 

Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes ! 

low laugh. 

He wiped the sweat-drops from his 

“ But if you ask me to restore 

Your sacrifices, stained with gore, 

brow, 

Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 

Unharnessed his horses from the 
plough, 

“ Not slaves and peasants shall they 

And clattering came on horseback to 

be, 

King Olaf. 

But men of note and high degree, 

He was the churliest of the churls ; 

Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of 
Gryting ! ” 

Little he cared for king or earls ; 

Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foam- 

Then to their Temple strode he in, 

ing passions. 

And loud behind him heard the din 

Hodden-gray was the garb he wore, 

Of his men-at-arms and the peasants 
fiercely fighting. 

And by the Hammer of Thor he 
swore ; 

There in the Temple, carved in 

He hated the narrow town, and all its 

wood, 

fashions. 

The image of great Odin stood, 

But he loved the freedom of his farm, 

And other gods, with Thor supreme 
among them. 

His ale at night, by the fireside 
warm, 

King Olaf smote them with the blade 

Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen 

Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid, 

tresses. 

And downward shattered to the pave- 

He loved his horses and his herds, 

The smell of the earth, and the song 

ment flung them. 

At the same moment rose without, 

of birds, 

From the contending crowd, a shout, 

His well filled barns, his brook with its 

A mingled sound of triumph and of wail- 

water-cresses. 

ing. 








440 


TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN 


And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the 
assailing. 


And seeing their leader stark and 
dead, 

The people with a murmur said, 

“ O King, baptize us with thy holy water ; ” 



King Olaf from the doorway spoke : 
“ Choose ye between two things, my 
folk, 

To be baptized or given up to slaugh¬ 
ter ! ” 


So all the Drontheim land be¬ 
came 

A Christian land in name and fame, 
In the old gods no more believing and 
trusting. 

































THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 


441 


And as a blood-atonement, soon 
King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun ; 

And thus in peace ended the Drontheim 
Hus-Ting ! 



On the cairn are fixed her eyes 
Where her murdered father lies, 
And a voice remote and drear 
She seems to hear. 


VIII. 

GUDRUN. 

On King Olaf’s bridal night 
Shines the moon with tender light, 
And across the chamber streams 
Its tide of dreams. 

At the fatal midnight hour, 

When all evil things have power, 
In the glimmer of the moon 
Stands Gudrun. 

Close against her heaving breast, 
Something in her hand is pressed ; 
Like an icicle, its sheen 
Is cold and keen. 


What a bridal night is this ! 

Cold will be the dagger’s kiss ; 
Laden with the chill of death 
Is its-breath. 

Like the drifting snow she sweeps 
To the couch where Olaf sleeps ; 
Suddenly he wakes and stirs, 

His eyes meet hers. 

“ What is that,” King Olaf said, 

“ Gleams so bright above thy head ? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight ? ” 

“ ’T is the bodkin that I weai 
When at night I bind my hair ; 








































































































































442 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Ft woke me falling on the floor ; 

Nor the songs they used write. 

’T is nothing more.” 

“ All this rhyme 

“Forests have ears, and fields have 

Is waste of time ! ” 

Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 

eyes ; 

Often treachery lurking lies 

To the alehouse, where he sat, 

Underneath the fairest hair ! 

Came the Scalds and Saga-men ; 

Gudrun beware ! ” 

Is it to be wondered at, 

Ere the earliest peep of morn 

That they quarrelled now and then, 

When o’er his beer 

Blew King Olaf’s bugle-horn ; 

Began to leer 

And forever sundered ride 

Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest? 

Bridegroom and bride ! 

IX. 

All the folk in Altafiord 

Boasted of their island grand ; 

THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. 

Saying in a single word, 

“ Iceland is the finest land 

Short of stature, large of limb, 

That the sun 

Doth shine upon ! ” 

Burly face and russet beard, 

Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 

All the women stared at him, 

When in Iceland he appeared. 

And he answered : “ What’s the use 

“ Look ! ” they said, 

Of this bragging up and down, 

With nodding head, 

When three women and one goose 

u There goes Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest.” 

Make a market in your town ! ” 

All the prayers he knew by rote, 

Every Scald 

Satires scrawled 

He could preach like Chrysostome, 

On poor Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 

From the Fathers he could quote, 

He had even been at Rome. 

Something worse they did than that; 

A learned clerk, 

And what vexed him most of all 

A man of mark, 

Was a figure in shovel hat, 

Was this Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 

Drawn in charcoal on the wall; 

He was quarrelsome and loud, 

With words that go 

Sprawling below, 

And impatient of control, 

“ This is Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest.” 

Boisterous in the market crowd, 

Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, 

Hardly knowing what he did, 

Everywhere 

Then he smote them might and 

Would drink and swear, 

main, 

Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 

Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 

In his house this malcontent 

Lay there in the alehouse slain. 

“ To-day we are gold, 

Could the King no longer bear, 

To-morrow mould ! ” 

So to Iceland he was sent 

Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 

To convert the heathen there, 

And away 

Much in fear of axe and rope, 

One summer day 

Back to Norway sailed he then, 

Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 

“ O, King Olaf! little hope 

There in Iceland, o’er their books 

Is there of these Iceland men ! ” 

Meekly said, 

Pored the people day and night, 

With bending head, 

But he did not like their looks, 

Pious Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 






THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 443 

X. 

And along the Salten Fiord 

Preach the Gospel with my sword, 

RAUD THE STRONG. 

Or be brought back in my shroud ! ” 


So northward from Drontheim 

“ All the old gods are dead, 

All the wild warlocks fled ; 

Sailed King Olaf! 

But the White Christ lives and reigns, 

And throughout my wide domains 

XI. 

His Gospel shall be spread ! ” 

On the Evangelists 

BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. 

Thus swore King Olaf. 

Loud the angry wind was wailing 

As King Olaf’s ships came sailing 

But still in dreams of the night 

Northward out of Drontheim haven 

Beheld he the crimson light, 

And heard the voice that defied 

To the mouth of Salten Fiord. 

Him who was crucified, 

Though the flying sea-spray drenches 

And challenged him to the fight. 

Fore and aft the rowers’ benches, 

To Sigurd the Bishop 

Not a single heart is craven 

King Olaf confessed it. 

Of the champions there on board. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 

All without the Fiord was quiet, 

“ The old gods are not dead, 

But within it storm and riot, 

For the great Thor still reigns, 

Such as on his Viking cruises 

And among the Jarls and Thanes 

The old witchcraft still is spread.” 

Raud the Strong was wont to ride. 

Thus to King Olaf 

And the sea through all its tide-ways 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

Swept the reeling vessels sideways, 

As the leaves are swept through sluices. 

“ Far north in the Salten Fiord, 

By rapine, fire, and sword, 

When the flood-gates open wide. 

Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong ; 

“ ’T is the warlock ! ’t is the demon 

All the Godoe Isles belong 

Raud ! ” cried Sigurd to the seamen ; 

To him and his heathen horde.” 

“ But the Lord is not affrighted 

Thus went on speaking 

Sigurd the Bishop. 

By the witchcraft of his foes.” 

To the ship’s bow he ascended, 

“ A warlock, a wizard is he, 

By his choristers attended, 

And lord of the wind and the sea; 

Round him were the tapers lighted 

And whichever way he sails, 

He has ever favoring gales, 

And the sacred incense rose. 

By his craft in sorcery.” 

On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, 

Here the sign of the cross 

In his robes, as one transfigured, 

Made devoutly King Olaf. 

“ With rites that we both abhor, 

And the Crucifix he planted 

High amid the rain and mist. 

He worships Odin and Thor ; 

Then with holy water sprinkled 

So it cannot yet be said, 

All the ship ; the mass-bells tinkled ; 

That all the old gods are dead, 

Loud the monks around him chanted, 

And the warlocks are no more,” 

Flushing with anger 

Loud he read the Evangelist. 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

As into the Fiord they darted, 

On each side the water parted; 

Then King Olaf cried aloud : 

Down a path like silver molten 

“ I will talk with this mighty Raud, 

Steadily rowed King Olaf’s ships : 






444 TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 

Steadily burned all night the tapers, 

In their temples Thor and Odin 

And the White Christ through the 

Lay in dust and ashes trodden, 

vapors 

As King Olaf, onward sweeping, 

Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, 

Preached the Gospel with his sword. 

As through John’s Apocalypse, — 

Then he took the carved and gilded 

Till at last they reached Raud’s dwell- 

Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, 

ing 

And the tiller single-handed 

On the little isle of Gelling ; 

Not a guard was at the doorway, 

Grasping, steered into the main. 

Not a glimmer of light was seen. 

Southward sailed the sea-gulls o’er him, 
Southward sailed the ship that bore him, 

But at anchor, carved and gilded, 

Till at Drontheim haven landed ' 

Lay the dragon-ship he builded ; 

’T was the grandest ship in Norway, 

Olaf and his crew again. 

With its crest and scales of green. 

XII. 

Up the stairway, softly creeping, 

To the loft where Raud was sleeping, 

KING OLAF’S CHRISTMAS. 

With their fists they burst asunder 

At Drontheim, Olaf the King 

Bolt and bar that held the door. 

Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, 

As he sat in his banquet-hall, 

Drunken with sleep and ale they found 

Drinking the nut-brown ale, 

him, 

With his bearded Berserks hale 

Dragged him from his bed and bound 
him, 

And tall. 

While he stared with stupid wonder, 

Three days his Yule-tide feasts 

At the look and garb they wore. 

He held with Bishops and Priests, 

And his horn filled up to the brim ; 

Then King Olaf said : “ 0 Sea-King ! 

But the ale was never too strong, 

Little time have we for speaking, 

Nor the Saga-man’s tale too long, 

Choose between the good and evil; 

For him. 

Be baptized, or thou shalt die ! ” 

O’er his drinking-horn, the sign 

But in scorn the heathen scoffer 

He made of the cross divine, 

Answered : “ I disdain thine offer ; 

As he drank, and muttered his pray- 

Neither fear I God nor Devil ; 

ers ; 

Thee and thy Gospel I defy ! ” 

But the Berserks evermore 

Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor 

Then between his jaws distended, 

When his frantic struggles ended, 

Over theirs. 

Through King Olaf’s horn an adder, 

The gleams of the fire-light dance 

Touched by fire, they forced to glide. 

Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, 

And laugh in the eyes of the King ; 

Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, 

And he cries to Halfred the Scald, 

As he gnawed through bone and mar- 

Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 

row ; 

But without a groan or shudder, 

“ Sing ! 

Raud the Strong blaspheming died. 

“ Sing me a song divine, 

With a sword in every line, 

Then baptized they all that region, 

And this shall be thy reward.” 

Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 

And he loosened the belt at his waist, 

Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 

And in front of the singer placed 

Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 

His sword. 








THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 445 

“ Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 

From the hilt of the lifted sword 

Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 

And in foaming cups of ale 

The millstone through and through, 

The Berserks drank “ Was-hael ! 

And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, 
Were neither so broad nor so long, 

To the Lord ! ” 

Nor so true.” 

XIII. 

Then the Scald took his harp and 
sang, 

THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

And loud through the music rang 

Thorberg Shafting, master-builder, 

The sound of that shining word ; 

In his ship-yard by the sea, 

And the harp-strings a clangor made, 

Whistling, said, “ It would bewilder 

As if they were struck with the blade 

Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 

Of a sword. 

Any man but me ! ” 

And the Berserks round about 

Near him lay the Dragon stranded, 

Broke forth into a shout 

Built of old by Raud the Strong, 

That made the rafters ring : 

And King Olaf had commanded 

They smote with their fists on the 

He should build another Dragon, 

board, 

And shouted, “ Long live the Sword, 

Twice as large and long. 

And the King ! ” 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, 

As he sat with half-closed eyes, 

But the King said, “ O my son, 

And his head turned sideways, draft- 

I miss the bright word in one 

ing 

Of thy measures and thy rhymes.” 

That new vessel for King Olaf 

And Halfred the Scald replied, 

“ In another ’t was multiplied 

Twice the Dragon’s size. 

Three times.” 

Round him busily hewed and hammered 

Mallet huge and heavy axe ; 

Then King Olaf raised the hilt 

Workmen laughed and sang and clam- 

Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, 

ored ; 

And said, “ Do not refuse ; 

Whirred the wheels, that into rigging 

Count well the gaiij and the loss, 

Thor’s hammer or Christ’s cross : 

Spun the shining flax ! 

Choose ! ” 

All this tumult heard the master, — 

It was music to his ear ; 

And Halfred the Scald said, “ This 

Fancy whispered all the faster, 

In the name of the Lord I kiss, 

“ Men shall hear of Thorberg Skaft- 

Who on it was crucified ! ” 

ing 

And a shout went round the board, 

“ In the name of Christ the Lord, 

For a hundred year ! ” 

Who died ! ” 

Workmen sweating at the forges 

Fashioned iron bolt and bar, 

Then over the waste of snows 

Like a warlock’s midnight orgies 

The noonday sun uprose, 

Smoked and bubbled the black caldron 

Through the driving mists revealed, 
Like the lifting of the Host, 

With the boiling tar. 

By incense-clouds almost 

Did the warlocks mingle in it, 

Concealed. 

Thorberg Skafting, any curse ? 

Could you not be gone a minute 

On the shining wall a vast 

But some mischief must be doing, 

And shadowy cross was cast 

Turning bad to worse ? 






446 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


T was an ill wind that came wafting, 

From his homestead words of woe ; 
To his farm went Thorberg Shafting, 


“ Come and see my ship, my darling ! ” 
On the morrow said the King ; 

“ Finished now from keel to carling ; 



Oft repeating to his workmen, 

Build ye thus and so. 

After long delays returning 

Came the master back by night; 
To his ship-yard longing, yearning, 
Hurried he, and did not leave it 
Till the morning’s light. 


Never yet was seen in Norway 
Such a wondrous thing ! ” 

In the ship-yard, idly talking, 

At the ship the workmen stared 
Some one, all their labor balking, 
Down her sides had cut deep gashes, 
Not a plank was spared ! 





































THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 447 

“ Death be to the evil-doer ! ” 

Round as a swallow’s nest descended ; 

With an oath King Olaf spoke ; 

As standard-bearer he defended 

“ But rewards to his pursuer ! ” 

Olaf’s flag in the fight. 

And with wrath his face grew redder 

Than his scarlet cloak. 

Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 

Straight the master-builder, smiling, 

Like the King in garb and face, 

So gallant and so hale ; 

Answered thus the angry King : 

Every cabin-boy and varlet 

“ Cease blaspheming and reviling, 

Wondered at his cloak of scarlet ; 

Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 

Like a river, frozen and star-lit, 

Who has done this thing ! ” 

Gleamed his coat-of-mail. 

Then he chipped and smoothed the 

By the bulkhead, tall and dark, 

planking, 

Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, 

Till the King, delighted, swore, 

A figure gaunt and grand ; 

With much lauding and much thanking, 

On his hairy arm imprinted 

“ Handsomer is now my Dragon 

Was an anchor, azure-tinted ; 

Than she was before ! ” 

Like Thor’s hammer, huge and dinted 

Seventy ells and four extended 

On the grass the vessel’s keel ; 

Was his brawny hand. 

Einar Tamberskelver, bare 

High above it, gilt and splendid, 

To the winds his golden hair, 

Rose the figure-head ferocious 

By the mainmast stood; 

With its crest of steel. 

Graceful was his form, and slender, 

Then they launched her from the tressels, 

And his eyes were deep and tender 

As a woman’s, in the splendor 

In the ship-yard by the sea; 

Of her maidenhood. 

She was the grandest of all vessels, 

Never ship was built in Norway 

In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 

Half so fine as she ! 

Watched the sailors at their work : 

The Long Serpent was she christened, 

Heavens ! how they swore ! 

Thirty men they each commanded, 

’Mid the roar of cheer on cheer ! 

Iron-sinewed, horny-handed, 

They who to the Saga listened 

Shoulders broad, and chests expanded, 

Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting, 

Tugging at the oar. 

For a hundred year ! 


f 

These, and many more like these, 

XIV. 

With King Olaf sailed the seas, 

THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

Till the waters vast 

Filled them with a vague devotion, 

Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay 

With the freedom and the motion, 

With the roll and roar of ocean 

King Olaf’s fleet assembled lay, 

And the sounding blast. 

And, striped with white and blue, 
Downward fluttered sail and banner, 

When they landed from the fleet, 

As alights the screaming lanner ; 

How they roared through Drontheim’s 

Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, 

street, 

The Long Serpent’s crew. 

Boisterous as the gale ! 

Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red ; 

How they laughed and stamped and 
pounded, 

Like a wolf’s was his shaggy head, 

Till the tavern roof resounded, 

His teeth as large and white ; 

And the host looked on astounded 

His beard, of gray and russet blended, 

' As they drank the ale ! 






44 ^ TALES OF A 

WAYSIDE INN. 

Never saw the wild North Sea 

Has wedded her with his ring, 

Such a gallant company 

And Thyri is Queen in the land ! 

Sail its billows blue ! 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, 

And flee away from each other. 

Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, 
Owned a ship so well apparelled, 

XVI. 

Boasted such a crew ! 

XV. 

QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA 

STALKS. 

A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. 

Northward over Drontheim, 

A little bird in the air 

Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, 

Sang the lark and linnet 

Is singing of Thyri the fair, 

From the meadows green ; 

The sister of Svend the Dane ; 

And the song of the garrulous bird 

Weeping in her chamber, 

In the streets of the town is heard, 

Lonely and unhappy, 

And repeated again and again. 

Sat the Drottning Thyri, 

Hoist up your sails of silk. 

Sat King Olaf’s Queen. 

And flee away from each other. 

To King Burislaf, it is said, 

In at all the windows 

Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 

Was the beautiful Thyri wed, 

On the roof above her 

And a sorrowful bride went she ; 

Softly cooed the dove ; 

And after a week and a day, 

She had fled away and away 

But the sound she heard not, 

From his town by the stormy sea. 

Nor the sunshine heeded, 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

For the thoughts of Thyri 

And flee away from each other. 

Were not thoughts of love. 

They say, that through heat and through 

Then King Olaf entered, 

cold, 

Beautiful as morning, 

Through weald, they say, and through 

Like the sun at Easter 

wold, 

Shone his happy face ; 

By day and by night, they say, 

She has fled ; and the gossips report 

In his hand he carried 

She has come to King Olaf’s court, 

Angelicas uprooted, 

And the town is all in dismay. 

With delicious fragrance 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

Filling all the place. 

And flee away from each other. 

It is whispered King Olaf has seen, 

Like a rainy midnight 

Sat the Drottning Thyri, 

Has talked with the beautiful Queen ; 

Even the smile of Olaf 

And they wonder how it will end ; 

Could not cheer her gloom ; 

For surely, if here she remain, 

It is war with King Svend the Dane, 

Nor the stalks he gave her 

And King Burislaf the Vend ! 

With a gracious gesture, 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And with words as pleasant 

And flee away from each other. 

As their own perfume. 

O, greatest wonder of all ! 

In her hands he placed them. 

It is published in hamlet and hall, 

And her jewelled fingers 

It roars like a flame that is fanned ! 

Through the green leaves glistened 

The King — yes, Olaf the King — 

Like the dews of morn ; 








THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 


449 


But she cast them from her, 
Haughty and indignant, 

On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 

“ Richer presents,” said she, 

“ Gave King Harald Gormson 
To the Queen, my mother, 
Than such worthless weeds ; 

“ When he ravaged Norway, 
Laying waste the kingdom, 


“ Never yet did Olaf 
Fear King Svend of Denmark ; 
This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin ! ” 

Then he left the chamber, 
Thundering through the doorway, 
Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 

Smarting with the insult, 

Through the streets of Drontheim 



Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 

“ But thou darest not venture 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 
My domains to rescue 
From King Burislaf; 

“ Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother, 
Scatter all thy vessels 
As the wind the chaff.” 

Then up sprang King Olaf, 

Like a reindeer bounding, 

With an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen : 

29 


Strode he red and wrathful, 
With his stately air. 

All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 
In the region round ; 

Down the coast of Norway, 
Like a flock of sea-gulls, 

Sailed the fleet of Olaf 
Through the Danish Sound. 

With his own hand fearless, 
Steered he the Long Serpent, 
Strained the creaking cordage, 
Bent each boom and gaff ; 
















45 ° TALES OF A 

WAYSIDE INN. 


Till in Vendland landing, 

Soon as the Spring appeared, 


The domains of Thyri 

Svend of the Forked Beard 


He redeemed and rescued 

High his red standard reared, 


From King Burislaf. 

Eager for battle ; 


Then said Olaf, laughing, 

While every warlike Dane, 

Seizing his arms again, 


“ Not ten yoke of oxen 

Left all unsown the grain, 


Have the power to draw us 

Unhoused the cattle. 


Like a woman’s hhir ! 



“Now will I confess it, 

Likewise the Swedish King 
Summoned in haste a Thing, 


Better things are jewels 

Weapons and men to bring 


Than angelica stalks are 

In aid of Denmark ; 


For a Queen to wear.” 

Eric the Norseman, too, 


XVII. 

As the war-tidings flew. 

Sailed with a chosen crew 


KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD. 

From Lapland and Finmark. 


Loudly the sailors cheered 

So upon Easter day 

Sailed the three kings away, 


Svend of the Forked Beard, 

Out of the sheltered bay, 


As with his fleet he steered 

In the bright season ; 


Southward to Vendland ; 

With them Earl Sigvald came, 


Where with their courses hauled 

Eager for spoil and fame ; 


All were together called, 

Pity that such a name 


Under the Isle of Svald 

Stooped to such treason ! 


Near to the mainland. 



/ 

Safe under Svald at last, 


After Queen Gunhild’s death, 

Now were their anchors cast, 


So the old Saga saith, 

Safe from the sea and blast, 


Plighted King Svend his faith 

Plotted the three kings ; 


To Sigrid the Haughty ; 

While, with a base intent, 


And to avenge his bride, 

Southward Earl Sigvald went, 


Soothing her wounded pride, 

On a foul errand bent, 


Over the waters wide 

Unto the Sea-kings. 


King Olaf sought he. 



Still on her scornful face, 

Thence to hold on his course, 

Unto King Olaf’s force, 


Blushing with deep disgrace, 

Lying within the hoarse 


Bore she the crimson trace 

Mouths of Stet-haven; 


Of Olaf’s gauntlet; 

Him to ensnare and bring, 


Like a malignant star, 

Unto the Danish king, 


Blazing in heaven afar, 

Who his dead corse would fling 


Red shone the angry scar 

Forth to the raven ! 


Under her frontlet. 



Oft to King Svend she spake, 

XVIII. 


“ For thine own honor’s sake 



Shalt thou swift vengeance take 

KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. 


On the vile coward ! ” 



Until the King at last, 

On the gray sea-sands 


Gusty and overcast, 

King Olaf stands, 


Like a tempestuous blast 

Northward and seaward 


Threatened and lowered. 

He points with his hands. 









THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 


451 


With eddy and whirl 

Let God dispose 

The sea-tides curl, 

Of my life in the fight! ” 

Washing the sandals 


Of Sigvald the Earl. 

“ Sound the horns ! ” said Olaf the King; 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 

The mariners shout, 

The blare of the horns began to ring, 

The ships swing about, 

Like the terrible trumpet shock 

The yards are all hoisted, 

Of Regnarock, 

The sails flutter out. 

On the Day of Doom ! 

The war-horns are played, 

Louder and louder the war-horns sang 

The anchors are weighed, 

Over the level floor of the flood ; 

Like moths in the distance 

All the sails came down with a clang, 

The sails flit and fade. 

And there in the mist overhead 

The sun hung red 

The sea is like lead, 

As a drop of blood. 

The hai'bor lies dead, 


As a corse on the sea-shore, 

Drifting down on the Danish fleet 

Whose spirit has fled ! 

Three together the ships were lashed, 

. 

So that neither should turn and retreat: 

On that fatal day, 

In the midst, but in front of the rest 

The histories say, 

The burnished crest 

Seventy vessels 

Of the Serpent flashed. 

Sailed out of the bay. 



King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, 

But soon scattered wide 

With bow of ash and arrows of oak, 

O’er the billows they ride, 

His gilded shield was without a fleck, 

While Sigvald and Olaf 

His helmet inlaid with gold, 

Sail side by side. 

And in many a fold 

Hung his crimson cloak. 

Cried the Earl : “ Follow me ! 


I your pilot will be, 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 

For I know all the channels 

Watched the lashing of the ships ; 

Where flows the deep sea ! ” 

“ If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 

We shall have hard work of it here,” 

So into the strait 

Said he with a sneer 

Where his foes lie in wait, 

On his bearded lips. 

Gallant King Olaf 


Sails to his fate ! 

King Olaf laid an arrow on string, 

“ Have I a coward on board ? ” said he. 

Then the sea-fog veils 

“ Shoot it another way, O King ! ” 

The ships and their sails ; 

Sullenly answered Ulf, 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 

The old sea-wolf; 

Thy vengeance prevails ! 

“ You have need of me ! ” 

XIX. 

In front came Svend, the King of tb 
Danes, 

KING OLAF’S WAR-HORNS. 

Sweeping down with his fifty rowers ; 

To the right, the Swedish king with h 

“ Strike the sails ! ” King Olaf said ; 

thanes; 

“ Never shall men of mine take flight; 

And on board of the Iron Beard 

Never away from battle I fled, 

Earl Eric steered 

Never away from my foes ! 

To the left with his oars. 










452 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

“ These soft Danes and Swedes,” said 

“ What was that ? ” said Olaf, standing 

the King, 

On the quarter-deck. 

“ At home with their wives had better stay, 

“ Something heard I like the stranding 

Than come within reach of my Serpent’s 

Of a shattered wreck.” 

sting ; 

Einar then, the arrow taking 

But where Eric the Norseman leads 

From the loosened string, 

Heroic deeds 

Answered, “ That was Norway break- 

Will be done to-day ! ” 

ing 

Then as together the vessels crashed, 

Eric severed the cables of hide, 

From thy hand, 0 King ! ” 

“ Thou art but a poor diviner,” 

With which King Olaf’s ships were lashed, 

Straightway Olaf said ; 

And left them to drive and drift 

“ Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 

With the currents swift 

Let thy shafts be sped.” 

Of the outward tide. 

Of his bows the fairest choosing, 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, 

Reached he from above ; 

Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 

Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! 

Through his iron glove. 

Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 

A death-drink salt as the sea 

But the bow was thin and narrow; 

Pledges to thee, 

At the first assay, 

Olaf the King ! 

O’er its head he drew the arrow, 

XX. 

Flung the bow away ; 

Said, with hot and angry temper 

EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. 

Flushing in his cheek, 

“ Olaf! for so great a Kamper 

It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Are thy bows too weak ! ” 

Stood beside the mast; 

Then, with smile of joy defiant 

From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, 

On his beardless lip, 

Flew the arrows fast; 

Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 

Aimed at Eric unavailing, 

Eric’s dragon-ship. 

As he sat concealed, 

Loose his golden locks were flowing, 

Half behind the quartei'-railing, 

Bright his armor gleamed ; 

Half behind his shield. 

Like Saint Michael overthrowing 

First an arrow struck the tiller, 

Just above his head ; 

Lucifer he seemed. 

XXI.' 

“ Sing, 0 Eyvind Skaldaspiller,” 

Then Earl Eric said, 

KING OLAF’S DEATH-DRINK. 

“ Sing the song of Hakon dying 

Sing his funeral wail ! ” 

Ali, day has the battle raged, 

And another arrow flying 

All day have the ships engaged, 

Grazed his coat-of-mail. 

But not yet is assuaged 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 

As the arrow passed, 

The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 

The decks with blood are red, 

Said Earl Eric, “ Shoot that bowman 

The arrows of death are sped, 

Standing by the mast.” 

The ships are filled with the dead, 

Sooner than the word was spoken 

And the spears the champions hurl. 

Flew the yeoman’s shaft; 

Einar’s bow in twain was broken, 

They drift as wrecks on the tide, 

Einar only laughed. 

The grappling-irons are plied, 







THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 


453 


The boarders climb up the side, 

The shouts are feeble and few. 

Ah ! never shall Norway again 

See her sailors come back o’er the main ; 

They all lie wounded or slain, 

Or asleep in the billows blue ! 

On the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 
The spears that the foemen fling, 

And the stones they hurl with their 
hands. 

In the midst of the stones and the spears, 
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, 

His shield in the air he uprears, 

By the side of King Olaf he stands. 

Over the slippery wreck 
Of the Long Serpent’s deck 
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 

His lips with anger are pale ; 

He-hews with his axe at the mast, 

Till it falls, with the sails overcast, 

Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 

Seeking King Olaf then, 

He rushes aft with his men, 

As a hunter into the den 

Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 

“ Remember Jarl Hakon ! ” he cries ; 
When lo ! on his wondering eyes, 

Two kingly figures arise, 

Two Olafs in warlike array ! 

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer, 

In a whisper that none may hear, 

With a smile on his tremulous Jip; 

Two shields raised high in the air, 

Two flashes of golden hair, 

Two scarlet meteors’ glare, 

And both have leaped from the ship. 

Earl Eric’s men in the boats 
Seize Kolbiorn’s shield as it floats, 

And cry, from their hairy throats, 

“ See ! it is Olaf the King ! ” 


While far on the opposite side 
Floats another shield on the tide, 
Like a jewel set in the wide 
Sea-current’s eddying ring. 

There is told a wonderful tale, 

How the King stripped off his mail, 
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, 

As he swam beneath the main ; 

But the young grew old and gray, 
And never, by night or by day, 

In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again ! 

XXII. 

THE NUN OF NIDAROS. 

In the convent of Drontheim, 
Alone in her chamber 
Knelt Astrid the Abbess, 

At midnight, adoring, 
Beseeching, entreating 
The Virgin and Mother. 

She heard in the silence 
The voice of one speaking, 
Without in the darkness, 

In gusts of the night-wind 
Now louder, now nearer, 

Now lost in the distance. 

The voice of a stranger 
It seemed as she listened, 

Of some one who answered, 
Beseeching, imploring, 

A cry from afar off 
She could not distinguish. 

The voice of Saint John, 

The beloved disciple, 

Who wandered and waited 
The Master’s appearance, 
Alone in the darkness, 
Unsheltered and friendless. 

“ It is accepted 
The angry defiance, 

The challenge of battle ! 

It is accepted, 

But not with the weapons 
Of war that thou wieldest! 













454 


TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 


“ Cross against corslet, 

Love against hatred, 
Peace-cry for war-cry ! 
Patience is powerful ; 

Pie that o’ercometh 

Hath power o’er the nations ! 

“ As torrents in summer, 

Half dried in their channels, 


“ Stronger than steel 
Is the sword of the Spirit; 
Swifter than arrows 
The light of the truth is, 
Greater than anger 
Is love, and subdueth ! 

“ Thou art a phantom, 

A shape of the sea-mist, 



Suddenly rise, though the 
Sky is still cloudless, 

For rain has been falling 
Far off at their fountains ; 

“ So hearts that are fainting 
Grow full to o’erflowing, 
And they that behold it 
Marvel, and know not 
That God at their fountains 
Far off has been raining ! 


A shape of the brumal 
Rain, and the darkness 
Fearful and formless; 

Day dawns and thou art not! 

“ The dawn is not distant, 
Nor is the night starless ; 
Love is eternal ! 

God is still God, and 
His faith shall not fail us ; 
Christ is eternal ! ” 















































































TORQUEMADA. 


INTERLUDE. 

A strain of music closed the tale, 

A low, monotonous, funeral wail, 

That with its cadence, wild and sweet, 
Made the long Saga more complete. 

“ Thank God,” the Theologian said, 

“ The reign of violence is dead, 

Or dying surely from the world; 

While Love triumphant deigns instead, 
And in a brighter sky o’erhead 
His blessed banners are unfurled. 

And most of all thank God for this : 

The war and waste of clashing creeds 
Now end in words, and not in deeds, 

And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, 

For thoughts that men call heresies. 

“ I stand without here in the porch, 

I hear the bell’s melodious din, 

I hear the organ peal within, 

I hear the prayer, with words that scorch 
Like sparks from an inverted torch, 

I hear the sermon upon sin, 

With threatenings of the last account. 
And all, translated in the air, 

Reach me but as our dear Lord’s Prayer, 
And as the Sermon on the Mount. 

“ Must it be Calvin, and not Christ ? 
Must it be Athanasian creeds, 

Or holy water, books, and beads ? 

Must struggling souls remain content 
With councils and decrees of Trent ? 

And can it be enough for these 
The Christian Church the year em¬ 
balms 

With evergreens and boughs of palms, 
And fills the air with litanies ? 

“ I know that yonder Pharisee 
Thanks God that he is not like me ; 

In my humiliation dressed, 

I only stand and beat my breast, 

And pray for human charity. 

I 

“ Not to one church alone, but seven, 
The voice prophetic spake from heaven; 
And unto each the promise came, 
Diversified, but still the same ; 

For him that overcometh are 
, The new name written on the stone, 


455 


The raiment white, the crown, the 
throne, 

And I will give him the Morning Star ! 

“ Ah ! to how many Faith has been 
No evidence of things unseen, 

But a dim shadow, that recasts 
The creed of the Phantasiasts, 

For whom no Man of Sorrows died, 

For whom the Tragedy Divine 
Was but a symbol and a sign, 

And Christ a phantom crucified ! 

“ For others a diviner creed 
Is living in the life they lead. 

The passing of their beautiful feet 
Blesses the pavement of the street, 

And all their looks and words repeat 
Old Fuller’s saying, wise and sweet, 

Not as a vulture, but a dove, 

The Holy Ghost came from above. 

“ And this brings back to me a tale 
So sad the hearer well may quail, 

And question if such things can be ; 

Yet in the chronicles of Spain 
Down the dark pages runs this stain, 

And naught can wash them white again, 
So fearful is the tragedy.” 

THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand 
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, 

And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, 
Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 
In a great castle near Valladolid, 

Moated and high and by fair woodlands 
hid, 

There dwelt, as from the chronicles we 
learn, 

An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, 
Whose name has perished, with his 
towers of stone, 

And all his actions save this one alone , 
This one so terrible, perhaps’t were best 
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest; 
Unless, perchance, our eyes can see 
therein 

The martyrdom triumphant o’er the sin , 








45 ^ 


TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 


A double picture, with its gloom and 
glow, 

The splendor overhead, the death below. 

This sombre man counted each day as 
lost 

On which his feet no sacred threshold 
crossed ; 

And when he chanced the passing Host 
to meet, 


His sole diversion was to hunt the boar 
Through tangled thickets of the forest 
hoar, 

Or with his jingling mules to hurry down 
To some grand bull-fight in the neigh¬ 
boring town, 

Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, 
When Jews were burned, or banished 
from the land. 

Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy ; 



He knelt and prayed devoutly in the 
street; 

Oft he confessed ; and with each muti¬ 
nous thought, 

As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he 
fought. 

In deep contrition scourged himself in 
Lent, 

Walked in processions, with his head 
down bent, 

At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, 

And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of 
green. 


The demon whose delight is to destroy 

Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet 
tone, 

“ Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out 
his own ! ” 

And now, in that old castle in the wood, 

His daughters, in the dawn of woman¬ 
hood, 

Returning from their convent school, had 
made 

Resplendent with their bloom the forest 
shade, 





























































































TORQUEMADA. 457 

Reminding him of their dead mother’s 

Questioned the servants, and with eager 

face, 

eyes 

When first she came into that gloomy 

Listened incredulous to their replies ; 

place,— 

The gypsy ? none had seen her in the 

A memory in his heart as dim and sweet 

wood ! 

As moonlight in a solitary street, 

The monk ? a mendicant in search of food 1 

Where the same rays, that lift the sea, 
are thrown 

At length the awful revelation came, 

Lovely but powerless upon walls of 

Crushing at once his pride of birth and 

stone. 

name, 

These two fair daughters of a mother 

The hopes his yearning bosom forward 

dead 

cast, 

Were all the dream had left him as it 

And the ancestral glories of the past; 

fled. 

All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, 

A joy at first, and then a growing care, 

A turret rent from battlement to base. 

As if a voice within him cried, “ Be- 

His daughters talking in the dead of 

ware ! ” 

night 

A vague presentiment of impending 

In their own chamber, and without a 

doom, 

light, 

Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, 

Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 

Haunted him day and night; a formless 

And learned the dreadful secret, word by 

fear 

word; 

That death to some one of his house was 

And hurrying from his castle, with a cry 

near, 

He raised his hands to the unpitying sky. 

With dark surmises of a hidden crime, 

Repeating one dread word, till bush and 

Made life itself a death before its time. 

tree 

Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of 

Caught it, and shuddering answered, 

shame, 

“ Heresy ! ” 

A spy upon his daughters he became ; 

With velvet slippers, noiseless on the 

Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o’er 

floors, 

his face, 

He glided softly through half-open 

Now hurrying forward, now with linger- 

doors ; 

ing pace, 

Now in the room, and now upon the 

He walked all night the alleys of his 

stair, 

park, 

He stood beside them ere they were 

With one unseen companion in the dark, 

aware ; 

The Demon who within him lay in wait, 

He listened in the passage when they 

And by his presence turned his love to 

talked, 

hate, 

He watched them from the casement 

Forever muttering in an undertone, 

when they walked, 

“ Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out his 

He saw the gypsy haunt the river’s side, 

own ! ” 

He saw the monk among the cork-trees 
glide ; 

Upon the morrow, after early Mass, 

And, tortured by the mystery and the 

While yet the dew was glistening on the 

doubt 

grass, 

Of some dark secret, past his finding 

And all the woods were musical with 

out, 

birds, 

Baffled he paused ; then reassured again 

The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, 

Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 

Walked homeward with the Priest, and 

He watched them even when they knelt 

in his room 

in church ; 

Summoned his trembling daughters to 

And then, descending lower in his search, 

their doom. 







453 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

When questioned, with brief answers they 

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more 

replied, 

The Hidalgo went, more eager than be- 

Nor when accused evaded or denied ; 

fore, 

Expostulations, passionate appeals, 

And said : “ When Abraham offered up 

All that the human heart most fears or 

his son, 

feels, 

He clave the wood wherewith it might be 

In vain the Priest with earnest voice es- 

done. 

sayed, 

By his example taught, let me too bring 

In vain the father threatened, wept, and 

Wood from the forest for my offering ! ” 

prayed ; 

And the deep voice, without a pause, re- 

Until at last he said, with haughty mien, 

plied : 

■“ The Holy Office, then, must intervene ! ” 

“ Son of the Church ! by faith now 
justified, 

And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 

Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou 

With all the fifty horsemen of his train, 

wilt; 

His awful name resounding, like the blast 

The Church absolves thy conscience 

Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, 
•Came to Valladolid, and there began 

from all guilt ! ” 

To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. 

Then this most wretched father went his 

To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate 

way 

Demanded audience on affairs of state, 

Into the woods, that round his castle lay, 

And in a secret chamber stood before 

Where once his daughters in their child- 

A venerable graybeard of fourscore, 

hood played 

Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar ; 

With their young mother in the sun and 

Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, 

shade. 

And in his hand the mystic horn he held, 

Now all the leaves had fallen; the 

Which poison and all noxious charms 

branches bare 

dispelled. 

Made a perpetual moaning in the air, 

He heard in silence the Hidalgo’s tale, 

And screaming from their eyries over- 

Then answered in a voice that made him 

head 

quail : 

The ravens sailed athwart the sky of 

“ Son of the Church ! when Abraham of 

lead. 

old 

With his own hands he lopped the 

To sacrifice his only son was told, 

boughs and bound 

He did not pause to parley nor protest, 

Fagots, that crackled with foreboding 

But hastened to obey the Lord’s behest. 

sound, 

In him it was accounted righteousness; 

And on his mules, caparisoned and gay 

The Holy Church expects of thee no 

With bells and tassels, sent them on 

less ! ” 

their way. 

A sacred frenzy seized the father’s brain, 

Then with his mind on one dark pur- 

And Mercy from that hour implored in 

pose bent, 

vain. 

Again to the Inquisitor he went, 

Ah ! who will e’er believe the words I 

And said : “ Behold, the fagots I have 

say ? 

brought, 

His daughters he accused, and the same 

And now, lest my atonement be as 

day 

naught, 

They both were cast into the dungeon’s 

Grant me one more request, one last 

gloom, 

desire, — 

That dismal antechamber of the tomb, 

With my own hand to light the funeral 

Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to 

fire ! ” 

the flame, 

And Torquemada answered from his 

The secret torture and the public shame. 

seat, 






TORQUEMADA. 


459 


“ Son of the Church ! thine offering is 
complete ; 

Her servants through all ages shall not 
cease 

To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace ! ” 

Upon the market-place, builded of stone 

The scaffold rose, whereon Death 
claimed his own. 


The church-bells tolled, the chant of 
monks drew near, 

Loud trumpets stammered forth their 
notes of fear, 

A line of torches smoked along the street, 
There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, 
And, with its banners floating in the air, 
Slowly the long procession crossed the 
square, 



At the four corners, in stern attitude, 
Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets 
stood, 

Gazing with calm indifference in their 
eyes 

Upon this place of human sacrifice, 
Round which was gathering fast the 
eager crowd, 

With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, 
And every roof and window was alive 
With restless gazers, swarming like a 
hive. 


And, to the statues of the Prophets 
bound, 

The victims stood, with fagots piled 
.-around. 

Then all the air a blast of trumpets 
shook, 

And louder sang the monks with bell and 
book, 

And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and 
proud, 

Lifted his torch, and, bursting through 
the crowd, 









































460 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, 
Lest those imploring eyes should strike 
him dead ! 

O pitiless skies ! why did your clouds 
retain 

For peasants’ fields their floods of 
hoarded rain ? 

O pitiless earth ! why opened no abyss 
To bury in its chasm a crime like this ? 

That night, a mingled column of fire and 
smoke 

From the dark thickets of the forest 
broke, 

And, glaring o’er the landscape leagues 
away, 

Made all the fields and hamlets bright as 
day. 

Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle 
blazed, 

And as the villagers in terror gazed, 

They saw the figure of that cruel knight 
Lean from a window in the turret’s height, 
His ghastly face illumined with the glare, 
His hands upraised above his head in 
prayer, 

Till the floor sank beneath him, and he 
fell 

Down the black hollow of that burning 
well. 

Three centuries and more above his bones 
Have piled the oblivious years like 
funeral stones ; 

His name has perished with him, and no 
trace 

Remains on earth of his afflicted race ; 
But Torquemada’s name, with clouds 
o’ercast, 

Lodms in the distant landscape of the 
Past, 

Like a burnt tower upon a blackened 
heath, 

Lit by the fires of burning woods be¬ 
neath ! 


INTERLUDE. 

Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 
That cast upon each listener’s face 
Its shadow, and for some brief space 


Unbroken silence filled the room. 

The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; 
Upon his memory thronged and pressed 
The persecution of his race, 

Their wrongs and sufferings and dis¬ 
grace ; 

His head was sunk upon his breast, 

And from his eyes alternate came 
Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. 

The Student first the silence broke, 

As one who long has lain in wait, 

With purpose to retaliate, 

And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. 

“ In such a company as this, 

A tale so tragic seems amiss, 

That by its terrible control 
O’ermasters and drags down the soul 
Into a fathomless abyss. 

The Italian Tales that you disdain, 

Some merry Night of Straparole, 

Or Machiavelli’s Belphagor, 

Would cheer us and delight us more, 

Give greater pleasure and less pain 
Than your grim tragedies of Spain ! ” 

And here the Poet raised his hand, 

With such entreaty and command, 

It stopped discussion at its birth, 

And said : “ The story I shall tell 
Has meaning in it, if not mirth ; 

Listen, and hear what once befell 
The merry birds of Killingworth ! ” 

THE POET’S TALE. 

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 

It was the season, when through all the 
land 

The merle and mavis build, and build¬ 
ing sing 

Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 
Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the 
Blithe-heart King ; 

When on the boughs the purple buds 
expand, 

The banners of the vanguard of the 
Spring, 

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, 
And wave their fluttering signals from 
the steep. 











THE BIRDS OF KILLING IVOR TH. 461 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 

The awful scarecrow, with his flutter- 

Filled all the blossoming orchards with 

ing shreds ; 

their glee ; 

The skeleton that waited at their feast, 

The sparrows chirped as if they still were 

Whereby their sinful pleasure was in- 

proud 

creased. 

Their race in Holy Writ should men- 


tioned be ; 

Then from his house, a temple painted 

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, 

white, 

Clamored their piteous prayer inces- 

With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 

santly, 

The Squire came forth, august and splen- 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and 

did sight ! 

said : 

Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 

“ Give us, 0 Lord, this day our daily 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left 

bread ! ” 

nor right, 

Across the Sound the birds of passage 

Down the long street he walked, as one 
who said, 

sailed, 

“ A town that boasts inhabitants like me 

Speaking some unknown language 

Can have no lack of good society ! ” 

strange and sweet 


Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man aus- 

The village with the cheers of all their 

tere, 

fleet; 

The instinct of whose nature was to 

Or quarrelling together, laughed and 

kill; 

railed 

The wrath of God he preached from year 

Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 

to year, 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish 

And read, with fervor, Edwards on the 

noise 

Will; 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 

and boys. 

In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killing- 

E’en now, while walking down the rural 
lane, 

worth, , 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his 

In fabulous days, some hundred years 

cane. 

ago ; 


And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 

earth. 

The hill of Science with its vane of 

Heard with alarm the cawing of the 

brass, 

crow, 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 

Now at the clouds, and now at the 

Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; 

green grass, 

They shook their heads, and doomed 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 

with dreadful words 

Of fair Almira in the upper class, 

To swift destruction the whole race of, 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 

birds. 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And a town-meeting was convened 

And next the Deacon issued from his 

straightway 

door, 

To set a price upon the guilty heads 

In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as 

Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 

snow ; 

Levied black-mail upon the garden 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; 

beds 

His form was ponderous, and his step 

And cornfields, and beheld without dis- 

was slow ; 

may 

1 There never was so wise a man before ; 

4A 





462 TALES OF A 

WAYSIDE INN. 

He seemed the incarnate “ Well, I told 

The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 

you so ! ” 

Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 

And to perpetuate his great renown 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost 

There was a street named after him in 

spray, 

town. 

Flooding with melody the neighbor¬ 
hood ; 

These came together in the new town- 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the 

hall, 

throng 

With sundry farmers from the region 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of 

round. 

song ; 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 


His air impressive and his reasoning 

“ You slay them all ! and wherefore? for 

sound ; 

the gain 

Ill fared it with the birds, both great and 

Of a scant handful more or less of 

small ; 

wheat, 

Hardly a friend in all that crowd they 

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain 

found, 

Scratched up at random by industrious 

But enemies enough, who every one 

feet, 

Charged them with all the crimes beneath 

Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 

the sun. 

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 

. 

As are the songs these uninvited guests 

When they had ended, from his place 

Sing at their feast with comfortable 

apart, 

breasts. 

Rose the Preceptor, to redress the 

• 

wrong, 

“Do you ne’er think what wondrous be- 

And, trembling like a steed before the 

ings these ? 

start, 

Do you ne’er think who made them, 

Looked round bewildered on the ex- 

and who taught 

pectant throng; 

The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Then thought of fair Almira, and took 

Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 

heart 

Whose household words are songs in 

To speak out what was in him, clear 

many keys, 

and strong, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e’er 

Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 

caught! 

And quite determined not to be laughed 

Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 

down. 

Are half-way houses on the road to 
heaven ! 

“ Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 


From his Republic banished without 

“ Think, every morning when the sun 

pity 

peeps through 

The Poets; in this little town of yours, 

The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the 

You put to death, by means of a Com- 

grove, 

mittee, 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 

Their old, melodious madrigals of 

The street-musicians of the heavenly 

love ! 

city, 

And when you think of this, remember 

The birds, who make sweet music for us all 

too 

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

,’T is always morning somewhere, and 
above 

“ The "thrush that carols at the dawn of 

The awakening continents, from shore to 

day 

shore, 

From the green steeples of the piny 

Somewhere the birds are singing ever- 

wood ; 

more. 







THE BIRDS OF KILLING IVOR TIL 


463 




“ Think of your woods and orchards with¬ 
out birds ! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs 
and beams 

As in an idiot’s brain remembered words 
Hang empty ’mid the cobwebs of his 
dreams ! 

Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 
Make up for the lost music, when your 
teams 


Of meadow-lark, and her sweet rounde¬ 
lay, 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and 
brake ? 

“You call them thieves and pillagers; 
but know, 

They are the winged wardens of your 
farms, 



Drag home the stingy harvest, and no 
more, 

The feathered gleaners follow to your 
door ? 

“ What ! would you rather see the inces¬ 
sant stir 

Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 

Is this more pleasant to von than the whir 


Who from the cornfields drive the insid¬ 
ious foe, 

And from your harvests keep a hun¬ 
dred harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all, the 
crow, 

Renders good service as your man-at- 
arms, 

Crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and 
snail. 




































464 TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 

u How can I teach your children gentle- 

A slaughter to be told in groans, not . 

ness, 

words, 

And mercy to the weak, and reverence 

The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 

For Life, which, in its weakness or ex- 


cess, 

The Summer came, and all the birds- 

Is still a gleam of God’s omnipotence, 

were dead ; 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no 

The days were like hot coals ; the very 

less 

ground 

The selfsame light, although averted 

Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed 

hence, 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 

When by your laws, your actions, and 

The cultivated fields and garden beds 

your speech, 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and 

You contradict the very things I teach ? M 

found 

No foe to check their march, till they had 

With this he closed; and through the 

made 

audience went 

The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

A murmur, like the rustle of dead 


leaves ; 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the 

The farmers laughed and nodded, and 

town, 

some bent 

Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 

Their yellow heads together like their 

Slaughtered the Innocents. From the 

sheaves; 

trees spun down 

Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in 

Upon each woman’s bonnet, shawl, and 

beeves. 

gown, 

The birds were doomed; and, as the 

Who shook them off with just a little 

record shows, 

cry j 

A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

They were the terror of each favorite 
walk, 

There was another audience out of reach, 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

Who had no voice nor vote in making 


laws, 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 

But in the papers read his little speech, 

Confessed their error, and would not 

And crowned his modest temples with 

complain, 

applause ; 

For after all, the best thing one can do 

They made him conscious, each one more 

When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

than each, 

Then they repealed the law, although 

He still was victor, vanquished in their 

they knew 

cause. 

It would not call the dead to life again ; 

Sweetest of all the applause he won from 

As school-boys, finding their mistake too 

thee, 

late, 

O fair Almira at the Academy ! 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing 
slate. 

And so the dreadful massacre began ; 


O’er fields and orchards, and o’er 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn 

woodland crests, 

came 

The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Without the light of his majestic look, 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains 

The wonder of the falling tongues of 

on their breasts, 

flame, 

Or wounded crept away from sight of 

The illumined pages of his Doom’s-day 

man, 

Book. 

While the young died of famine in their 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with 

nests ; 

their shame, 






THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH 465 


And drowned themselves despairing in 
the brook, 

While the wild wind went moaning every¬ 
where, 

Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was 
seen, 

A sight that never yet by bard was 
sung, 

As great a wonder as it would have 
been 

If some dumb animal had found a 
tongue ! 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages 
hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down the 
street, 

Filling the air with music wild and 
sweet. 

From all the country round these birds 
were brought, 

By order of the town, with anxious 
quest, 

And, loosened from their wicker prisons, 
sought 

In woods and fields the places they 
loved best, 

Singing loud canticles, which many 
thought 

Were satires to the authorities ad¬ 
dressed, 

While others, listening in green lanes, 
averred 

Such loyely music never had been heard ! 
30 


But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to 
know 

It was the fair Almira’s wedding-day, 

And everywhere, around, above, below, 
When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous over¬ 
flow, 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 

FINALE. 

The hour was late ; the fire burned low, 
The Landlord’s eyes were closed in sleep, 
And near the story’s end a deep 
Sonorous sound at times was heard, 

As when the distant bagpipes blow. 

At this all laughed ; the Landlord stirred, 
As one awaking from a swound, 

And, gazing anxiously around, 

Protested that he had not slept, 

But only shut his eyes, and kept 
His ears attentive to each word. 

Then all arose, and said “ Good Night.’ 
Alone remained the drowsy Squire 
To rake the embers of the fire, 

And quench the waning parlor light; 
While from the windows, here and there. 
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed. 
And the illumined hostel seemed 
The constellation of the Bear, 

Downward, athwart the misty air, 

Sinking and setting toward the sun. 

Far off the village clock struck one. 








BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT THE SECOND. 


THE CHILDREN’S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 
Comes a pause in the day’s occupa¬ 
tions, . 

That is known as the Children’s Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet, 

The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 

And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 

They climb up into my turret 
‘O’er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 

Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 


And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 
And moulder in dust away ! 

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. 

Labor with what zeal we will, 
Something still remains undone, 
Something uncompleted still 
Waits the rising of the sun. 

By the bedside, on the stair, 

At the threshold, near the gates. 
With its menace or its prayer, 

Like a mendicant it waits ; 

Waits, and will not go away ; 

Waits, and will not be gainsaid ; 

By the cares of yesterday 

Each to-day is heavier made ; 

Till at length the burden seems 
Greater than our strength can bear. 
Heavy as the weight of dreams, 
Pressing on us everywhere. 

And we stand from day to day, 

Like the dwarfs of times gone by. 
Who, as Northern legends say,. 

On their shoulders held the sky. 

ENCELADUS. 

Under Mount Etna he lies, 

It is slumber, it is not death ; 

For he struggles at times to arise, 

And above him the lurid skies 
Are hot with his fiery breath. 

The crags are piled on his breast, 

The earth is heaped on his head ; 

But the groans of his wild unrest. 
Though smothered and half suppressed 
Are heard, and he is not dead. 











WEARINESS. 


467 


And the nations far away 

Are watching with eager eyes ; 

They talk together and say, 

“ To-morrow, perhaps to-day, 
Enceladus will arise ! ” 

And the old gods, the austere 
Oppressors in their strength, 

Stand aghast and white with fear 
At the ominous sounds they hear, 

And tremble, and mutter, “ At length ! 

Ah me ! for the land that is sown 
With the harvest of despair ! 

Where the burning cinders, blown 


From the lips of the overthrown 
Enceladus, fill the air. 

Where ashes are heaped in drifts 
Over vineyard and field and town, 
Whenever he starts and lifts 
His head through the blackened rifts 
Of the crags that keep him down. 

See, see ! the red light shines ! 

’T is the glare of his awful eyes ! 

And the storm-wind shouts through the 
pines 

Of Alps and of Apennines, 

“ Enceladus, arise ! ” 



WEARINESS. 

O little feet! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 
Must ache and bleed beneath your 
load ; 


I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
Am weary, thinking of your road ! 

O little hands ! that, weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 



































468 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 




Have still so long to give or ask ; 

I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 

O little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine that so long has glowed and 
burned, 


With passions into ashes turned 
Now covers and conceals its fires. 

O little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 
Direct from heaven, their source di¬ 
vine ; 

Refracted through the mist of years, 

How red my setting sun appears, 

How lurid looks this soul of mine ! 



SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments 
. shaken, 

Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 

Silent, and soft, and slow 
Descends the snow. 


This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair, 

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 


A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 



Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expres¬ 
sion, 

Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 


O gift of God ! O perfect day : 
Whereon shall no man work, but play; 
Whereon it is enough for me, 

Not to be doing, but to be ! 


Through every fibre of my brain, 

Through every nerve, through everv vein. 

























THE CUMBERLAND. 469 

I feel the electric thrill, the touch 

To try the force 

Of life, that seems almost too much. 

Of our ribs of oak. 

I hear the wind among the trees 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Playing celestial symphonies ; 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 

I see the branches downward bent, 

Then comes a puff of smoke from her 

Like keys of some great instrument. 

guns, 

And over me unrolls on high 

And leaps the terrible death, 

With fiery breath, 

The splendid scenery of the sky, 

From each open port. 

Where through a sapphire sea the sun 

Sails like a golden galleon, 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 

As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 

Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 

Rebounds our heavier hail 

Whose steep sierra far uplifts 

From each iron scale 

Its craggy summits white with drifts. 

Of the monster’s hide. 

Blow, winds ! and waft through all the 

“ Strike your flag ! ” the rebel cries, 

rooms 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms ! 

“ Never ! ” our gallant Morris replies ; 

Blow, winds ! and bend within my reach 

“ It is better to sink than to yield ! ” 

The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 

And the whole air pealed 

O Life and Love ! O happy throng 

Of thoughts, whose only speech is song ! 

With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black, 

O heart of man ! canst thou not be 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 

Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 

Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 

i860. 

With a sudden shudder of death, 

THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

And the cannon’s breath 

For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast fc 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of- 

head. 

war ; 

Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 

And at times from the fortress across the 

Every waft of the air 

bay 

Was a whisper of prayer, 

The alarum of drums swept past, 

Or a dirge for the dead. 

Or a bugle blast 

From the camp on the shore. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the 

Then far away to the south uprose 

seas ! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 

Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 

And we knew that the iron ship of our 

Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 

foes 

Shall be one again, 

Was steadily steering its course 

% 

And without a seam ! 






FLOWER-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER 

POEMS. 

l866. 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 

Or solitary mere, 

Or where the sluggish meadow-brook 
delivers 

Its waters to the weir ! 

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and 
worry 

Of spindle and ofloom, 

And the great wheel that toils amid the 
hurry 

And rushing of the flume. 


Born to the purple, born to joy and 
pleasance, 

Thou dost not toil nor spin, 

But makest glad and radiant with thy 
presence 

The meadow and the lin. 

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping 
banner, 

And round thee throng and run 
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy 
manor, 

The outlaws of the sun. 







PALINGENESIS. 


47 * 


The burnished dragon-fly is thine attend¬ 
ant, 

And tilts against the field, 

And down the listed sunbeam rides re¬ 
splendent 

With steel-blue mail and shield. 

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, 

Who, armed with golden rod 
And winged with the celestial azure, 
bearest 

The message of some God. 


Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded 
cities 

Hauntest the sylvan streams, 

Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties 

That come to us as dreams. 

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the 
river 

Linger to kiss thy feet! 

O flower of song, bloom on, and make 
forever 

The world more fair and sweet. 



PALINGENESIS. 

I LAY upon the headland-height, and 
listened 

To the incessant sobbing of the sea 
In caverns under me, 

And watched the waves, that tossed and 
fled and glistened, 


Until the rolling meadows of amethyst 
Melted away in mist. 

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I 
started; 

For round about me all the sunny 
capes 

Seemed peopled with the shapes 







4 7 2 FLO WER-DE-L UCE, 

AND OTHER POE MS. 

Of those whom I had known in days de- 

Then said I, “ From its consecrated cere- 

parted, 

ments 

Apparelled in the loveliness which 

I will not drag this sacred dust again, 

gleams 

Only to give me pain ; 

On faces seen in dreams. 

But, still remembering all the lost en¬ 
dearments, 

A moment only, and the light and glory 

Go on my way, like one who looks be- 

Faded away, and the disconsolate shore 

fore, 

Stood lonely as before ; 

And turns to weep no more.” 

And the wild-roses of the promontory 


Around me shuddered in the wind, and 

Into what land of harvests, what planta- 

shed 

tions 

Their petals of pale red. 

Bright with autumnal foliage and the 
glow 

There was an old belief that in the 

Of sunsets burning low ; 

embers 

Beneath what midnight skies, w T hose con- 

Of all things their primordial form exists, 

stellations 

And cunning alchemists 

Light up the spacious avenues between 

Could re-create the rose with all its mem- 

This world and the unseen ! 

bers 


From its own ashes, but without the 

Amid what friendly greetings and ca- 

bloom, 

resses, 

Without the lost perfume. 

What households, though not alien, yet 
not mine, 

Ah me ! what wonder-working, occult 

What bowers of rest divine ; 

science 

To what temptations in lone wildernesses, 

Can from the ashes in our hearts once 

What famine of the heart, what pain and 

more 

loss, 

The rose of youth restore ? 

The bearing of what cross ! 

What craft of alchbmy can bid defiance 


To time and change, and for a single 

I do not know; nor will I vainly ques- 

hour 

tion 

Renew this phantom-flower ? 

Those pages of the mystic book which 
hold 

‘‘0, give me back,” I cried, “the van- 

The story still untold, 

ished splendors, 

But without rash conjecture or sugges- 

The breath of morn, and the exultant 

tion 

strife, 

Turn its last leaves in reverence and 

When the swift stream of life 

good heed, 

Bounds o’er its rocky channel, and sur- 

Until “ The End ” I read. 

renders 

The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap 


Into the unknown deep ! ” 

THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. 

And the sea answered, with a lamenta- 

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken 

tion, 

Pleasant visions, as of old ! 

Like some old prophet wailing, and it 

Though the house by winds be shaken. 

said, 

Safe I keep this room of gold ! 

“ Alas ! thy youth is dead ! 

* 

It breathes no more, its heart has no 

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy 

pulsation ; 

Builds her castles in the air, 

In the dark places with the dead of old 

Luring me by necromancy 

It lies forever cold ! ” 

Up the never-ending stair ! 







THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. 


473 


But, instead, she builds me bridges 
Over many a dark ravine, 

Where beneath the gusty ridges 
Cataracts dash and roar unseen. 

And I cross them, little heeding 
Blast of wind or torrent’s roar, 

As I follow the receding 

Footsteps that have gone before. 

Naught avails the imploring gesture, 
Naught avails the cry of pain ! 

When I touch the flying vesture, 

’T is the gray robe of the rain. 

Baffled I return, and, leaning 
O’er the parapets of cloud, 

Watch the mist that intervening 
Wraps the valley in its shroud. 

And the sounds of life ascending 
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, 

Murmur of bells and voices blending 
With the rush of waters near. 

Well I know what there lies hidden, 
Every tower and town and farm, 

And again the land forbidden 
Reassumes its vanished charm. 

Well I know the secret places, 

And the nests in hedge and tree ; 

At what doors are friendly faces, 

In what hearts are thoughts of me. 

Through the mist and darkness sinking, 
Blown by wind and beaten by shower, 
Down I fling the thought I’m thinking, 
Down I toss this Alpine flower. 

THE WIND OVER THE CHIM¬ 
NEY. 

See, the fire is sinking low, 

Dusky red the embers glow, 

While above them still I cower, 

While a moment more I linger, 

Though the clock, with lifted finger, 
Points beyond the midnight hour. 

Sings the blackened log a tune 
Learned in some forgotten June 


From a school-boy at his play, 

When they both were young together, 
Heart of youth and summer weather 
Making all their holiday. 

And the night-wind rising, hark ! 

How above there in the dark, 

In the midnight and the snow, 

Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, 

Like the trumpets of Iskander, 

All the noisy chimneys blow ! 

Every quivering tongue of flame 
Seems to murmur some great name, 
Seems to say to me, “ Aspire ! ” 

But the night-wind answers, “ Hollow 
Are the visions that you follow, 

Into darkness sinks your fire ! ” 

Then the flicker of the blaze 
Gleams on volumes of old days, 

Written by masters of the art, 

Loud through whose majestic pages 
Rolls the melody of ages, 

Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 

And again the tongues of flame 
Start exulting and exclaim : 

“ These are prophets, bards, and seers; 
In the horoscope of nations, 

Like ascendant constellations, 

They control the coming years.” 

But the night-wind cries : “ Despair ! 
Those who walk with feet of air 
Leave no long-enduring marks ; 

At God’s forges incandescent 
Mighty hammers beat incessant, 

These are but the flying sparks. 

“ Dust are all the hands that wrought; 
Books are sepulchres of thought; 

The dead laurels of the dead 
Rustle for a moment only, 

Like the withered leaves in lonely 
Churchyards at some passing tread.” 

Suddenly the flame sinks down ; 

Sink the rumors of renown ; 

And alone the night-wind drear 
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, — 

“ ’T is the brand of Meleager 

Dying on the hearth-stone here ! ” 














474 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE , AND OTHER POEMS. 


And I answer, — “ Though it be, 
Why should that discomfort me ? 
No endeavor is in vain ; 


Its reward is in the doing, 

And the rapture of pursuing 

Is the prize the vanquished gain.” 



HAWTHORNE. 

MAY 23, 1864. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright 
day 

In the long week of rain ! 

Though all its splendor could not chase 
away 

The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple- 
blooms, 

And the great elms o’erhead 

Dark shadows wove on their aerial 
looms, 

Shot through with golden thread. 


Across the meadows, by the gray .old 
manse, 

The historic river flowed : 

I was as one who wanders in a trance, 
Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed 
strange : 

Their voices I could hear, 

And yet the words they uttered seemed 
to change 

Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not there, 
The one low voice was mute ; 

Only an unseen presence filled the air, 
And baffled my pursuit. 
























KAMBALU. 


475 


Now I look back, and meadow, manse, 
and stream 

Dimly my thought defines ; 

I only see — a dream within a dream — 
The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 
Their tender undertone, 

The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 
The voice so like his own. 

There in seclusion and remote from men 
The wizard hand lies cold, 

Which at its topmost speed let fall the 
pen, 

And left the tale half told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic 
power, 

And the lost clew regain ? 

The unfinished window in Aladdin’s 
tower 

Unfinished must remain ! 


CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

I heard the bells on Christmas Day 
Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 
The words repeat 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 
Had rolled along 
The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way, 

The world revolved from night to day, 

A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South, 
And with the sound 
The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 


And made forlorn 
The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And in despair I bowed my head ; 

“ There is no peace on earth,” I said; 

“ For hate is strong, 

And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! ” 

Then pealed the bells more loud and 
deep : 

“ God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep ! 
The Wrong shall fail, 

The Right prevail, 

With peace on earth, good-will to men ! ” 

KAMBALU. 

Into the city of Kambalu, 

By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, 

At the head of his dusty caravan, 

Laden with treasure from realms afar, 
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, 

Rode the great captain Alau. 

The Khan from his palace-window 
gazed, 

And saw in the thronging street beneath, 
In the light of the setting sun, that 
blazed, 

Through the clouds of dust by the 
caravan raised, 

The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, 
And the shining scimitars of the guard, 
And the weary camels that bared their 
teeth, 

As they passed and passed through the 
gates unbarred 

Into the shade of the palace-yard. 

Thus into the city of Kambalu 
Rode the great captain Alau ; 

And he stood before the Khan, and 
said : 

“ The enemies of my lord are dead ; 

All the Kalifs of all the West 
Bow and obey thy least behest; 

The plains are dark with the mulberry- 
trees, 

The weavers are busy in Samarcand, 

The miners are sifting the golden sand, 







476 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE , AND OTHER POEMS. 


The divers plunging for pearls in the 
seas, 

And peace and plenty are in the land. 

“ Baldacca’s Kalif, and he alone 
Rose in revolt against thy throne : 

His treasures are at thy palace-door, 
With the swords and the shawls and the 
jewels he wore ; 

His body is dust o’er the desert blown. 

“ A mile outside of Baldacca’s gate 
I left my forces to lie in wait, 

Concealed by forests and hillocks of 
sand, 

And forward dashed with a handful of 
men 

To lure the old tiger from his den 
Into the ambush I had planned. 

Ere we reached the town the alarm was 
spread, 

For we heard the sound of gongs from 
within; 

And with clash of cymbals and warlike 
din 

The gates swung wide; and we turned 
and fled, 

And the garrison sallied forth and pur¬ 
sued, 

With the gray old Kalif at their head, 
And above them the banner of Mo¬ 
hammed ; 

So we snared them all, and the town was 
subdued. 

“ As in at the gate we rode, behold, 

A tower that was called the Tower of 
Gold ! 

For there the Kalif had hidden his 
wealth, 

Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, 
Like sacks of wheat in a granary ; 

And thither the miser crept by stealth 
To feel of the gold that gave him 
health, 

And to gaze and gloat with his hungry 
eye 

On jewels that gleamed like a glow¬ 
worm’s spark, 

Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. 

“ I said to the Kalif: ‘ Thou art old, 

Thou hast no need of so much gold. 


Thou shouldst not have heaped and 
hidden it here, 

Till the breath of battle was hot and 
near, 

But have sown through the land these 
useless hoards 

To spring into shining blades of swords, 
And keep thine honor sweet and clear. 
These grains of gold are not grains of 
wheat; 

These bars of silver thou canst not eat; 
These jewels and pearls and precious 
stones 

Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, 

Nor keep the feet of Death one hour 
From climbing the stairways of thy 
tower ! ’ 

“ Then into his dungeon I locked the 
drone, 

And left him to feed there all alone 
In the honey-cells of his golden hive : 
Never a prayer nor a cry nor a groan 
Was heard from those massive walls of 
stone, 

Nor again was the Kalif seen alive ! 

“ When at last we unlocked the door, 

We found him dead upon the floor ; 

The rings had dropped from his with¬ 
ered hands, 

His teeth were like bones in the desert 
sands; 

Still clutching his treasure he had died ; 
And as he lay there, he appeared 
A statue of gold with a silver beard, 

His arms outstretched as if crucified.” 

This is the story, strange and true, 

That the great captain Alau 
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, 
When he rode that day into ICambalu 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. 

THE BELLS OF LYNN. 

HEARD AT NAHANT. 

O curfew of the setting sun ! O Bells 
of Lynn ! 

O requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of 
Lynn ! 














DIVINA COMM ED I A. 


From the dark belfries of yon cloud- 
cathedral wafted, 

Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells 
of Lynn ! 

Borne on the evening wind across the 
crimson twilight, 

O’er land and sea they rise and fall, O 
Bells of Lynn ! 

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond 
the headland, 

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O 
Bells of Lynn ! 

Over the shining sands the wandering 
cattle homeward 

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of 
Lynn ! 

The distant lighthouse hears, and with 
his flaming signal 

Answers you, passing the watchword on, 
O Bells of Lynn ! 

And down the darkening coast run the 
tumultuous surges, 

And clap their hands, and shout to you, 
O Bells of Lynn ! 

Till from the shuddering sea, with your 
wild incantations, 

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O 
Bells of Lynn ! 

And startled at the sight, like the weird 
woman of Endor, 

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells 
of Lynn ! 

DIVINA COMMEDIA. 

i. 

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 

A laborer, pausing in the dust and 
heat, 

Lay down his burden, and with rever¬ 
ent feet 

Enter, and cross himself, and on the 
floor 

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o’er ; 


477 


Far off the noises of the world retreat; 
The loud vociferations of the street 
Become an undistinguishable roar. 

So, as I enter here from day to day, 

And leave my burden at this minster 
gate, 

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed 
to pray, 

The tumult of the time disconsolate 
To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
While the eternal ages watch and wait 

II. 

How strange the sculptures that adorn 
' these towers ! 

This crowd of statues, in whose folded 
sleeves 

Birds build their nests ; while canopied 
with leaves 

Parvis and portal bloom like trellised 
bowers, 

And the vast minster seems a cross of 
flowers ! 

But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled 
eaves 

Watch the dead Christ between the 
living thieves, 

And, underneath, the traitor Judas 
lowers ! 

Ah ! from what agonies of heart and 
brain, 

What exultations trampling on despair, 
What tenderness, what tears, what 
hate of wrong, 

What passionate outcry of a soul in 
pain, 

Uprose this poem of the earth and air, 
This mediaeval miracle of song ! 

hi. 

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom 
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine ! 
And strive to make my steps keep pace 
with thine. 

The air is filled with some unknown 
perfume ; 

The congregation of the dead make room 
For thee to pass ; the votive tapers 
shine ; 

Like rooks that haunt Ravenna’s 
groves of pine 








478 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE , AND OTHER POEMS. 


The hovering echoes fly from tomb to 
tomb. 

From the confessionals I hear arise 

Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, 

And lamentations from the crypts be¬ 
low ; 

And then a voice celestial, that begins 

With the pathetic words, “Although 
your sins 

As scarlet be,” and ends with “ as the 
snow.” 

IV. 

With snow-white veil, and garments as 
of flame, 

She stands before thee, who so long ago 

Filled thy young heart with passion 
and the woe 

From which thy song in all its splen¬ 
dors came ; 

And while with stern rebuke she speaks 
thy name, 

The ice about thy heart melts as the 
snow 

On mountain heights, and in swift 
overflow 

Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of 
shame. 

Thou makest full confession; and a 
gleam 

As of the dawn on some dark forest 
cast, 

Seems on thy lifted forehead to in¬ 
crease ; 

Lethe and Eunoe — the remembered 
dream 

And the forgotten sorrow — bring at 
last 

That perfect pardon which is perfect 
peace. 


T lift mine eyes, and all the windows 
blaze 

With forms of saints and holy men 
who died, 

Here martyred and hereafter glorified ; 

And the great Rose upon its leaves 
displays 

Christ’s Triumph, and the angelic roun¬ 
delays, 


With splendor upon splendor multi¬ 
plied ; 

And Beatrice again at Dante’s side 

No more rebukes, but smiles her words 
of praise. 

And then the organ sounds, and unseen 
choirs 

Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and 
love, 

And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; 

And the melodious bells among the spires 

O’er all the house-tops and through 
heaven above 

Proclaim the elevation of the Host! 

VI. 

O star of morning and of liberty ! 

O bringer of the light, whose splendor 
shines 

Above the darkness of the Apennines, 

Forerunner of the day that is to be ! 

The voices of the city and the sea, 

The voices of the mountains and the 
pines, 

Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines 

Are footpaths for the thought of Italy 1 

Thy fame is blown abroad from all the 
heights, 

Through all the nations, and a sound 
is heard, 

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, 

Strangers of Rome, and the new prose¬ 
lytes, 

In their own language hear thy won¬ 
drous word, 

And many are amazed and many doubt. 
TO-MORROW. 

’Tis late at night, and in the realm of 
sleep 

My little lambs are folded like the 
flocks ; 

From room to room I hear the wakeful 
clocks 

Challenge the passing hour, like guards- 
that keep 

Their solitary watch on tower and steep ; 

Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks. 

And through the opening door that 
time unlocks 













KILLED AT THE FORD . 


479 


Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow 
creep. 

1 o-morrow! the mysterious, unknown 
guest, 

Who cries to me : “ Remember Bar¬ 
mecide, 


And tremble to be happy with the rest.” 
And I make answer : “ I am satisfied ; 

I dare not ask ; I know not what is 
best; 

God hath already said what shall be¬ 
tide.” 



KILLED AT THE FORD. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, 
He, the life and light of us all, 

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, 
Whom all eyes followed with one consent. 
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose 
pleasant word, 

Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 

Only last night, as we rode along 
Down the dark of the mountain gap, 


To visit the'picket-guard at the ford, 
Little dreaming of any mishap, 

He was humming the words of some old 
song : 

° * 

“ Two red roses he had on his cap 
And another he bore at the point of his 
sword.” 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball 
Came out of a wood, and the voice was 
still ; 

Something I heard in the darkness fall, 
And for a moment my blood grew chill : 






































480 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE , AND OTHER POEMS. 


I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 

In a room where some one is lying 
dead ; 

But he made no answer to what I said. 

We lifted him up to his saddle again, 

And through the mire and the mist and 
the rain 

Carried him back to the silent camp, 

And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; 

And I saw by the light of the surgeon’s 
lamp 

Two white roses upon his cheeks, 

And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! 


And I saw in a vision how far and 
fleet 

That fatal bullet went speeding forth, 

Till it reached a town in the distant 
North, 

Till it reached a house in a sunny street, 

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat 

Without a murmur, without a cry ; 

And a bell was tolled in that far-off 
town, 

For one who had passed from cross to 
crown, 

And the neighbors wondered that she 
should die. 



GIOTTO’S TOWER. 

How many lives, made beautiful and 
sweet 

By self-devotion and by self-restraint, 


Whose pleasure is to run without com¬ 
plaint 

On unknown errands of the Paraclete, 
Wanting the reverence of unshodden 
feet, 
























































NOEL. 481 

Fail of the nimbus which the artists 

Mais des environs d’Avize, 

paint 

Fredonne a mainte reprise, 

Around the shining forehead of the 

“ Bons amis, 

saint, 

J’ai chante chez Agassiz ! ” 

And are in their completeness incom- 


plete ! 

A cote marchait un vieux 

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto’s 

Hidalgo, mais non mousseux ; 

tower, 

Dans le temps de Charlemagne 

The lily of Florence blossoming in 

Fut son pere Grand d’Espagne ! 

stone, — 

“ Bons amis 

-A vision, a delight, and a desire, — 

The builder’s perfect and centennial 

J’ai dine chez Agassiz ! ” 

flower, 

Derriere eux un Bordelais, 

That in the night of ages bloomed 

Gascon, s’il en fut jamais, 

alone, 

Parfume de poesie 

But wanting still the glory of the spire. 

Riait, chantait, plein de vie, 


“ Bons amis, 


J’ai soupe chez Agassiz ! ” 

NOEL. 

Avec ce beau cadet roux, 

ENVOYE A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE 

Bras dessus et bras dessous, 

NOEL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DEVINS 

Mine altiere et couleur terne, 

DIVERS. 

Vint le Sire de Sauterne ; 


“ Bons amis, 

L’Acadeinie en respect, 

Nonobstant l’incorrection, 

J’ai couche chez Agassiz J ” 

A la faveur du sujet, 

Ture-lure, 

. N’y fera point de rature ; 

Noel! ture-lure-lure. 

Gui-Barozai. 

Mais le dernier de ces preux, 

Etait un pauvre Chartreux, 

Qui disait, d’un ton robuste, 

“ Benedictions sur le Juste ! 

Quand les astres de Noel 

Bons amis 

Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, 

Benissons Pere Agassiz ! ” 

Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, 

Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, 

Us arrivent trois a trois, 

“ Bons amis 

Montent l’escalier de bois 

Allons done chez Agassiz ! ” 

Clopin-clopant ! quel gendarme 

Peut permettre ce vacarme, 

Ces illustres Pelerins 

Bons amis, 

D’Outre-Mer a droits et fins, 

A la porte d’ Agassiz ! 

Se dormant des airs de pretre, 

A l’envi se vantaient d’etre 

“ Ouvrez done, mon bon Seigneur. 

“ Bons amis 

De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz ! ” 

Ouvrez vite et n’ayez peur ; 

Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes 

Gens de bien et gentilshommes, 

CEil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, 

Bons amis * 

Sans reproche et sans pudeur, 

Dans son patois de Bourgogne, 

De la famille Agassiz ! ” 

Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, 

Chut, ganaches ! taisez-vous ! 

“ Bons amis, 

C’en est trop de vos glouglous ; 

J’ai danse chez Agassiz ! ” . 

Epargnez aux Philosophes 

Vos abominables strophes ! 

Verzenay le Champenois, 

Bons amis, 

BonFra^ais, point New-Yorquois, 

3 i 

Respectez mon Agassiz ! 





































NOTES. 

—•— 


Page 19. Coplas de Manrique. 

This poem of Manrique is a great favor¬ 
ite in Spain. No less than four poetic 
Glosses, or running commentaries, upon 
it have been published, no one of which, 
however, possesses great poetic merit. 
That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de 
Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as 
the Glosa del Cartajo. There is also a 
prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. 

The following stanzas of the poem 
were found in the author’s pocket, after 
his death on the field of battle. 

“ O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost 
give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 

Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

“ Our days are covered o’er with grief, 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

“ Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 

And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 

Or dark despair; 

Midway so many toils appear, 

That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

“ Thy goods are bought with many a 
groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs.” 

Page 31. My grave ! 

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Ad¬ 
miral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, 


who for his great prowess received the 
popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thun¬ 
der-shield. In childhood he was a tail¬ 
or’s apprentice, and rose to his high rank 
before the age of twenty-eight, when he 
was killed in a duel. 

Page 36. The Skeleton in Armor . 

This Ballad was suggested to me while 
riding on the sea-shore at Newport. A 
year or two previous a skeleton had been 
dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and 
corroded armor ; and the idea occurred to 
me of connecting it with the Round 
Tower at Newport, generally known 
hitherto as the Old Windmill, though 
now claimed by the Danes as a work of 
their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in 
the Memoires de la Societe Royale des An- 
iiquaires du Nord, for 1838-1839, says : — 

“ There is no mistaking in this instance 
the style in which the more ancient stone 
edifices of the North were constructed, — 
the style which belongs to the Roman or 
Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, es¬ 
pecially after the time of Charlemagne, 
diffused itself from Italy over the whole 
of the West and North of Europe, where 
it continued to predominate until the close 
of the twelfth century, — that style which 
some authors have, from one of its most 
striking characteristics, called the round 
arch style, the same which in England is 
denominated Saxon and sometimes Nor¬ 
man architecture. 

“ On the ancient structure in Newport 
there are no ornaments remaining, which 
might possibly have served to guide us in 
assigning the probable (late of its erection. 
That no vestige whatever is found of the 
pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, 
is indicative of an earlier rather than of a 
later period. From such characteristics 
as remain, however, we can scarcely form 
any other inference than one, in which I 
am persuaded that all who are familiar 
with Old-Northern architecture will con- 






NOTES. 


484 


cur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED 
AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER 

than the twelfth century. This re¬ 
mark applies, of course, to the original 
building only, and not to the alterations 
that it subsequently received; for there 
are several such alterations in the upper 
part of the building which cannot be mis¬ 
taken, and which were most likely occa¬ 
sioned by its being adapted in modern 
times to various uses ; for example, as 
the substructure of a windmill, and lat¬ 
terly as a hay magazine. To the same 
times may be referred the windows, the 
fireplace, and the apertures made above 
the columns. That this building could 
not have been erected for a windmill, is 
what an architect will easily discern.” 

I will not enter into a discussion of the 
point. It is sufficiently well established 
for the purpose of a ballad : though 
doubtless many a citizen of Newport, 
who has passed his days within sight of 
the Round Tower, will be ready to ex¬ 
claim, with Sancho : “ God bless me ! 
did I not warn you to have a care of what 
you were doing, for that it was nothing 
but a windmill; and nobody could mis¬ 
take it, but one who had the like in his 
head.” 

Page 39. Skoal! 

In Scandinavia, this is the customary 
salutation when drinking a health. I 
have slightly changed the orthography 
of the word, in order to preserve the 
correct pronunciation. 

Page 41. The Luck of Edenhall. 

The tradition upon which this ballad 
is founded, and the “ shards of .the Luck 
of Edenhall,” still exist in England. The 
goblet is in the possession of Sir Christo¬ 
pher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cum¬ 
berland ; and is not so entirely shattered 
as the ballad leaves it. 

Page 42. The Elected Knight. 

This strange and somewhat mystical 
ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek’s 
Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It 
seems to refer to the first preaching of 
Christianity in the North, and to the in¬ 


stitution of Knight-Errantry. The three 
maidens I suppose to be F'aith, Hope, 
and Charity. The irregularities of the 
original have been carefully preserved in 
the translation. 

Page 66. As Lope says. 

“ La colera 

de un Espanol sentado no se templa, 
sino le representan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis,” 

Lope de Vega. 

Page 68. Ahernuncio Satanas. 

“ Digo, Senora, respondio Sancho, lo 
que tengo dicho, que de los azotes aber- 
nuncio. Abrenuncio, habeis de decir, 
Sancho, y no como decis, dijo el Duque.” 

— Doji Quixote , Part II. ch. 35. 

Page 72. Fray Carrillo. 

The allusion here is to a Spanish Epi¬ 
gram. 

“ Siempre Fray Carrillo estas 
cansandonos aca fuera ; 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas ! ” 

B 'ohl de Faber. Floresta, No. 611. 

Page 72. Padre Francisco. 

This is from an Italian popular song. 

“ ‘ Padre Francesco, 

Padre Francesco ! ’ 

— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco ? — 

‘ V’ e una bella ragazzina 
Che si vuole confessar ! ’ 

Fatte P entrare, fatte P entrare ! 

Che la voglio confessare.” 

Kopisch. Volksthiiniliche Poesien aus 
alien Mundarten Italiens und seiner 
Inseln, p. 194. 

Page 73. Ave ! cujus calcem dare. 

From a monkish hymn of the twelfth 
century, in Sir Alexander Croke’s Essay 
oji the Origin , Progress , and Declitie of 
Rhyming Latin Verse, p. 109. 

Page 76. The gold of the Busjie. 

Busne is the name given by the Gyp¬ 
sies to all who are not of their race. 






NOTES. 


485 


Page 77. Count of the Cales. 

The Gypsies call themselves Cales. 
See Borrow’s valuable and extremely in¬ 
teresting work, The Zincali; or an Ac¬ 
count of the Gypsies in Spain. London, 
1841. 

Page 78. Asks if his money-bags would 
rise. 

“ i Y volviendome a un lado, vi a un 
Avariento, que estaba preguntando a 
otro, (que por haber sido embalsamado, y 
estar lexos sus tripas no hablaba, porque 
no habian Uegado si habian de resucitar 
aquel dia todos los enterrados) si resuci¬ 
tar ian unos bolsones suyos ? ” — El Sueho 
de las Calaveras. 

Page 79. And amen ! said my Cid the 
Campeador. 

A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

“ Amen, dixo Mio Cid el Campeador.” 

Line 3044. 

Page 79. The river of his thoughts. 

This expression is from Dante ; 

“ Si che chiaro 

Per essa scenda della mente il flume.” 

Byron has likewise used the expres¬ 
sion ; though I do not recollect in which 
of his poems. 

Page 79. Mari Franca. 

A common Spanish proverb, used to 
turn aside a question one does not wish 
to answer; 

“ Porque caso Mari Franca 
quatro leguas de Salamanca.” 

Page 80. Ay, soft , emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, with good reason, con¬ 
sider this color of the eye as beautiful, 
and celebrate it in song; as, for example, 
in the well-known Villancico: 

“ Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 
ay hagan los cielos 
que de mi te acuerdes ! 

Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos.” 

Bohl de Faber. Floresta, No. 255. 


Dante speaks of Beatrice’s eyes as em¬ 
eralds. Pur gatorio, xxxi. 116. Lami says, 
in his Annotazioui, “ Erano i suoi occhi 
d’ un turchino verdiccio, simile a quel del 
mare.” 

Page 80. The Avenging Child. 

See the ancient Ballads of El Infante 
Vengador, and Calaynos. 

Page 80. All are sleeping. 

From the Spanish. Bohl de Faber. 
Floresta , No. 282. 

Page 87. Good night. 

From the Spanish ; as are likewise the 
songs immediately following, and that 
which commences the first scene of Act 

III. 

Page 93. The evil eye. 

“ In the Gitano language, casting the 
evil eye is called Querelar nasula, which 
simply means making sick, and which, 
according to the common superstition, is 
accomplished by casting an evil look at 
people, especially children, who, from the 
tenderness of their constitution, are sup¬ 
posed to be more easily blighted than 
those of a more mature age. After re¬ 
ceiving the evil glance, they fall sick, and 
die in a few hours. 

“ The Spaniards have very little to say 
respecting the evil eye, though the belief 
in it is very prevalent, especially in Anda¬ 
lusia, amongst the lower orders. A stag’s 
horn is considered a good safeguard, and 
on that account a small horn, tipped with 
silver, is frequently attached to the chil¬ 
dren’s necks by means of a cord braided 
from the hair of a black mare’s tail. 
Should the evil glance be cast, it is imag¬ 
ined that the horn receives it, and in¬ 
stantly snaps asunder. Such horns may 
be purchased in some of the silversmiths’ 
shops at Seville.” — Borrow’s Zincali , 
Vol. I. ch. ix. 

Page 94. On the top of a mountain 1 
stand. 

This and the following scraps of song 
are from Borrow’s Zincali ; or an Account 
of the Gypsies in Spain. 







NOTES. 


486 


The Gypsy words in the same scene 
may be thus interpreted : — 

John-Dorados, pieces of gold. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. 

In your morocco, stripped. 

Doves, sheets. 

Moon, a shirt. 

Chirelin, a thief. 

Murcigalleros, those who steal at night¬ 
fall. 

Rastilleros, footpads. 

Hermit, highway robber. 

Planets, candles. 

Commandments , the fingers. 

Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person 
asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards and Dancing John, to take 
flight. 

Page 98. If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

From the Spanish; as is likewise the 
song of the Contrabandista on page 99. 

Page 103. All the Foresters of Flan¬ 
ders. 

The title of Foresters was given to the 
early governors of Flanders, appointed by 
the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, 
in the days of Clotaire the Second, was 
the first of them ; and Beaudoin Bras-de- 
Fer, who stole away the fair Judith, 
daughter of Charles the Bald, from the 
French court, and married her in Bruges, 
was the last. After him the title of For¬ 
ester was changed to that of Count. 
Philippe d’Alsace, Guy de Dampierre, 
and Louis de Crecy, coming later in the 
order of time, were therefore rather 
Counts than Foresters. Philippe went 
twice to the Holy Land as a Crusader, 
and died of the plague at St. Jean- 
d’Acre, shortly after the capture of the 
city by the Christians. Guy de Dampierre 
died in the prison of Compiegne. Louis 
de Crecy was son and successor of Rob¬ 
ert de Bethune, who strangled his wife, 
Yolande de Bourgogne, with the bridle 
of his horse, for having poisoned, at the 
age of eleven years, Charles, his son by 
his first wife, Blanche d’Anjou. 


Page 103. Stately dames, like queens 
attended. 

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, 
visited Flanders with his queen, she was 
so astonished at the magnificence of the 
dames of Bruges, that she exclaimed : 
“Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais il 
parait que ceux de Flandre qui se trouvent 
dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, car 
leurs femmes sont habillees comme des 
princesses et des reines.” 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, 
Bruges, and Ypres went to Paris to pay 
homage to King John, in 1351, they were 
received with great pomp and distinction ; 
but, being invited to a festival, they ob¬ 
served that their seats at table were not 
furnished with cushions ; whereupon, to 
make known their displeasure at this 
want of regard to their dignity, they folded 
their richly embroidered cloaks and 
seated themselves upon them. On rising 
from table, they left their cloaks behind 
them, and, being informed of their ap¬ 
parent forgetfulness, Simon van Eer- 
trycke, burgomaster of Bruges, replied, 
“We Flemings are not in the habit of 
carrying away our cushions after din¬ 
ner.” 

Page 103. Knights zvho bore the Fleece 
of Gold. 

Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le 
Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal on the 
10th of January, 1430 ; and on the same 
day instituted the famous order of the 
Fleece of Gold. 

Page 103. I beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, 
was left by the death of her father, 
Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of 
twenty, the richest heiress of Europe. 
She came to Bruges, as Countess of 
Flanders, in 1477, and in the same year 
was married by proxy to the Archduke 
Maximilian. According to the custom 
of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maxi¬ 
milian’s substitute, slept with the princess. 
They were both in complete dress, sep¬ 
arated by a naked sword, and attended 
by tour armed guards. Marie was adored 








NOTES. 487 


by her subjects for her gentleness and 
her many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor 
Frederick the Third, and is the same per¬ 
son mentioned afterwards in the poem of 
Nuremberg as the Kaiser Maximilian, 
and the hero of Pfinzing’s poem of Teuer- 
dank. Having been imprisoned by the 
revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused 
to release him, till he consented to kneel 
in the public square, and to swear on the 
Holy Evangelists and the body of Saint 
Donatus, that he would not take ven¬ 
geance upon them for their rebellion. 

Page 103. The bloody battle of the 
Spurs of Gold. 

This battle, the most memorable in 
Flemish history, was fought under the 
walls of Courtray, on the nth of July, 
1302, between the French and the Flem¬ 
ings, the former commanded by Robert, 
Comte d’Artois, and the latter by Guil¬ 
laume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Na¬ 
mur. The French army was completely 
routed, with a loss of twenty thousand in¬ 
fantry and seven thousand calvary ;'among 
whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, 
and counts, seven hundred lords-ban- 
neret, and eleven hundred noblemen. 
The flower of the French nobility per¬ 
ished on that day ; to which history has 
given the name of the four nee des Eper- 
ons d'Or, from the great number of golden 
spurs found on the field of battle. Seven 
hundred of them were hung up as a 
trophy in the church of Notre Dame de 
Courtray ; and, as the cavaliers of that 
day wore but a single spur each, these 
vouched to God for the violent and 
bloody death of seven hundred of his 
creatures. 

Page 103. Saw the fight at Minnc - 
zuater. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were 
digging a canal at Minnewater, to bring 
the waters of the Lys from Deynze to 
their city, they were attacked and routed 
by the citizens of Ghent, whose com¬ 
merce would have been much injured 
by the canal. They were led by Jean 
Lyons, captain of a military company at 


Ghent, called the Chaperons Blancs. He 
had great sway over the turbulent pop¬ 
ulace, who, in those prosperous times of 
the city, gained an easy livelihood by 
laboring two or three days in the week, 
and had the remaining four or five to 
devote to public affairs. The fight at 
Minnewater was followed by open re¬ 
bellion against Louis de Maele, the Count 
of Flanders and Protector of Bruges. 
His superb chateau of Wondelghem was 
pillaged and burnt; and the insurgents 
forced the gates of Bruges, and entered 
in triumph, with Lyons mounted at their 
head. A few days afterwards he died 
suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a 
check at the village of Nevele ; and two 
hundred of them perished in the church, 
which was burned by the Count’s orders. 
One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took 
refuge in the belfry. From the summit of 
the tower he held forth his purse filled with 
gold, and begged for deliverance. It was 
in vain. His enemies cried to him from 
below to save himself as best he might; 
and, half suffocated with smoke and 
flame, he threw himself from the tower 
and perished at their feet. Peace was 
soon afterwards established, and the 
Count retired to faithful Bruges. 

Page 103. The Golden Dragon's nest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the 
church of St. Sophia, at Constantinople, 
in one of the Crusades, and placed on the 
belfry of Bruges, was afterwards trans¬ 
ported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, 
and still adorns the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at 
Ghent is, “ Mynen naem is Roland; als 
ik klep is er brand , and als ik luy is er 
victorie in het land.” My name is Ro¬ 
land ; when I toll there is fire, and when 
I ring there is victory^in the land. 

Page 104. That their great imperial 
city stretched its hand through every 
clime. 

An old popular proverb of the town 
runs thus : — 

“ A'iirnberf s Hand 
Geht dureh alle Land.” 







NOTES. 


488 


Nuremberg’s hand 
Goes through every land. 

Page 104. Sat the poet Melchior sing¬ 
ing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most 
celebrated German poets of the sixteenth 
century. The hero of his Teuerdank was 
the reigning emperor, Maximilian ; and 
the poem was to the Germans of that day 
what the Orlando Fnrioso was to the 
Italians. Maximilian is mentioned be¬ 
fore, in the Belfry of Bruges. See page 
103. 

Page 105. In the church of sainted Se- 
bald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the 
church which bears his name, is one of 
the richest works of art in Nuremberg. 
It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter 
Vischer and his sons, who labored upon 
it thirteen years. It is adorned with 
nearly one hundred figures, among which 
those of the Twelve Apostles are con¬ 
spicuous for size and beauty. 

Page 105. In the church of sainted 
Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture 
rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels 
of the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam 
Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpt¬ 
ure in white stone, and rises to the height 
of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, 
whose richly painted windows cover it 
with varied colors. 

Page 106. Wisest of the Twelve Wise 
Masters. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the 
title of the original corporation of the 
Mastersingers. Hans Sachs,' the cobbler 
of Nuremberg, though not one of the 
original Twelve, was the most renowned 
of the Mastersingers, as well as the most 
voluminous. He flourished in the six¬ 
teenth century; and left behind him 
thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript, 
containing two hundred and eight plays, 
one thousand and seven hundred comic 
tales, and between four and five thousand 
lyric poems. 


Page 106. As in Adam Puschman's 
Song. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the 
death of Hans Sachs, describes him as 
he appeared in a vision : — 

“ An old man, 

Gray and white, and dove-like, 

Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 

And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps.” 

Page 117. Who , unharmed ’, on his 

tusks once caught the bolts of the thun¬ 
der. 

“ A delegation of warriors from the 
Delaware tribe having visited the gov¬ 
ernor of Virginia, during the Revolution, 
on matters of business, after these had 
been discussed and settled in council, the 
governor asked them some questions 
relative to their country, and among oth¬ 
ers, what they knew or had heard of the 
animal whose bones were found at the 
Saltlicks on the Ohio. Their chief 
speaker immediately put himself into an 
attitude of oratory, and with a pomp 
suited to what he conceived the elevation 
of his subject, informed him that it was a 
tradition handed down from their fathers, 
“ that in ancient times a herd of these 
tremendous animals came to the Bigbone 
licks, and began an universal destruction 
of the bear, deer, elks, buffaloes, and 
other animals which had been created 
for the use of the Indians : that the Great 
Man above, looking down and seeing 
this, was so enraged, that he seized his 
lightning, descended on the earth, seated 
himself on a neighboring mountain, on a 
rock of which his seat and the print of 
his feet are still to be seen, and hurled 
his bolts among them till the whole were 
slaughtered, except the big bull, who, 
presenting his forehead to the shafts, 
shook them off as they fell; but missing 
one at length, it wounded him in the 
side ; whereon, springing round, he 
bounded over the Ohio, over the Wabash, 
the Illinois, and finally over the great 
lakes, where he is living at this day.’ ” — 
Jefferson’s Notes on Virginia , Query VI. 








NOTES. 


Page 117. The Occultation of Orion. 

Astronomically speaking, this title is 
incorrect; as I apply to a constel¬ 
lation what can properly be applied to 
some of its stars only. But my obser¬ 
vation is made from the hill of song, and 
not from that of science; and will, I trust, 
be found sufficiently accurate for the 
present purpose. 

Page 124. Walter von der Vogelweid. 

Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird- 
Meadow, was one of the principal Min¬ 
nesingers of the thirteenth century. He 
triumphed over Heinrich von Ofterdingen 
in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, 
known in literary history as the War of 
W artburg. 

Page 126. Like imperial Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne may be called by pre¬ 
eminence the monarch of farmers. 
According to the German tradition, in 
seasons' of great abundance, his spirit 
crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge at 
Bingen, and blesses the cornfields and 
the vineyards. During his lifetime, he 
did not disdain, says Montesquieu, “ to 
sell the eggs from the farm-yards of his 
domains, and the superfluous vegetables 
of his gardens ; while he distributed 
among his people the wealth of the 
Lombards and the immense treasures of 
the Huns.” 

Page 184. 

Behold , at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this 
passage, by stating, that sometimes 
though not usually, vessels are launched 
fully sparred and rigged. I have availed 
myself of the exception as better suited 
to my purposes than the general rule ; 
but the reader will see that it is neither a 
blunder, nor a poetic license. On this 
subject a friend in Portland, Maine, 
writes me thus : — 

“ In this State, and also, I am told, in 
New York, ships are sometimes rigged 
upon the stocks, in order to save time, or 


489 


to make a show. There was a fine, 
large ship launched last summer at 
Ellsworth, fully sparred and rigged. 
Some years ago a ship was launched 
here, with her rigging, spars, sails, and 
cargo aboard. She sailed the next day 
and — was never heard of again ! I 
hope this will not be the fate of your 
poem ! ” 

Page 192. Sir Humphrey Gilbert. 

“ When the wind abated and the 
vessels were near enough, the Admiral 
was seen constantly sitting in the stern, 
with a book in his hand. On the 9th of 
September he was seen for the last time, 
and was heard by the people of the Hind 
to say, ‘ We are as near heaven by sea as 
by land.’ In the following night, the 
lights of the ship suddenly disappeared. 
The people in the other vessel kept a 
good lookout for him during the re¬ 
mainder of the voyage. On the 22d of 
September they arrived, through much 
tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But 
nothing more was seen or heard of the 
Admiral.”— Belknap’s American Biog¬ 
raphy, I. 203. 

Page 204. The Blind Girl of Castitl- 
Cuillt. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful 
poem, is to the South of France what 
Burns is to the South of Scotland, — the 
representative of the heart of the 
people, — one of those happy bards who 
are born with their mouths full of birds 
(la bonco pleno d' aouzelous). He has 
written his own biography in a poetic 
form, and the simple narrative of his 
poverty, his struggles, and his triumphs 
is very touching. He still lives at Agen, 
on the Garonne; and long may he live 
there to delight his native land with 
native songs ! «, 

The following description of his person 
and way of life is taken from the graphic 
pages of “ Bearn and the Pyrenees,” by 
Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming 
pen has done so much to illustrate the 
French provinces and their literature. 

“ At the entrance of the promenade, 
Du Gravier, is a row of small houses, 





NOTES. 


490 


— some cafes , others shops, the indica¬ 
tion of which is a painted cloth placed 
across the way, with the owner’s name in 
bright gold letters, in the manner of the 
arcades in the streets, and their an¬ 
nouncements. One of the most glaring 
of these was, we observed, a bright blue 
flag, bordered with gold ; on which, in 
large gold letters, appeared the name of 
‘Jasmin, Coiffeur.’ We entered, and 
were welcomed by a smiling, dark-eyed 
woman, who informed us that her hus¬ 
band was busy at that moment dressing a 
customer’s hair, but he was desirous to 
receive us, and begged we would walk 
into his parlor at the back of the shop. 

“ She exhibited to us a laurel crown of 
gold, of delicate workmanship, sent from 
the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to 
the poet; who will probably one day 
take his place in the capitoul. Next came 
a golden cup, with an inscription in his 
honor, given by the citizens of Auch; a 
gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the 
king, Louis Philippe ; an emerald ring 
worn and presented by the lamented 
Duke of Orleans; a pearl pin, by the 
graceful Duchess, who, on the poet’s 
visit to Paris accompanied by his son, 
received him in the words he puts into 
the mouth of Henri Quatre : — 

‘ Brabes Gaseous ! 

A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre : 
Benes ! benes ! ey plaze de bous beyre : 

Aproucha bous ! ’ 

A fine service of linen, the offering of 
the town of Pau, after its citizens had 
given fetes in his honor, and loaded him 
with caresses and praises; and knick- 
knacks and jewels of all descriptions 
offered to him by lady-ambassadresses, 
and great lords; English ‘misses’ and 
‘miladis’; and French, and foreigners 
of all nations who did or did not under¬ 
stand Gascon. 

“ All this, though startling, was not 
convincing; Jasmin, the barber, might 
only be a fashion, a furore , a caprice, 
after all; and it was evident that he 
knew how to get up a scene well. When 
we had become nearly tired of looking 


over these tributes to his genius, the door 
opened, and the poet himself appeared. 
His manner was free and unembarrassed, 
well-bred, and lively; he received our 
compliments naturally, and like one ac¬ 
customed to homage ; said he was ill, 
and unfortunately too hoarse to read any¬ 
thing to us, or should have been de¬ 
lighted to do so. He spoke with a broad 
Gascon accent, and very rapidly and 
eloquently ; ran over the story of his 
successes ; told us that his grandfather 
had been a beggar, and all his family 
very poor; that he was now as rich as 
he wished to be; his son placed in a 
good position at Nantes ; then showed us 
his son’s picture, and spoke of his dis¬ 
position ; to which his brisk little wife 
added, that, though no fool, he had not 
his father’s genius, to which truth Jasmin 
assented as a matter of course. I told 
him of having seen mention made of him 
in an English review ; which he said had 
been sent him by Lord Durham, who had 
paid him a visit ; and I then spoke of 
‘ Me cal mouri ’ as known to me. This 
was enough to make him forget his 
hoarseness and every other evil : it would 
never do for me to imagine that that little 
song was his best composition; it was 
merely his first; he must try to read 
to me a little of ‘ L’Abuglo,’ — a few 
verses of ‘ Fran5ouneto.’ ‘You will be 
charmed,’ said he ; ‘ but if I were well, 
and you would give me the pleasure of 
your company for some time, if you were 
not merely running through Agen, I 
would kill you with weeping, — I would 
make you die with distress for my poor 
Margarido, — my pretty Frangouneto ! ’ 

“ He caught up two copies of his book, 
from a pile lying on the table, and mak¬ 
ing us sit close to him, he pointed out 
the French translation on one side, which 
he told us to follow while he read in Gas¬ 
con. He began in a rich, soft voice, and 
as he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet 
on hearing the player-king recite the dis¬ 
asters of Hecuba was but a type of ours, 
to find ourselves carried away by the 
spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes swam 
in tears ; he became pale and red ; he 
trembled ; he recovered himself; his face 





NOTES. 


was now joyous, now exulting, gay, jo¬ 
cose ; in fact, he was twenty actors in 
one ; he rang the changes from Rachel to 
Bouffe ; and he finished by delighting us, 
besides beguiling us of our tears, and 
overwhelming us with astonishment. 

“ He would have been a treasure on 
the stage ; for he is still, though his first 
youth is past, remarkably good-looking 
and striking ; with black, sparkling eyes, 
of intense expression ; a fine, ruddy com¬ 
plexion ; a countenance of wondrous mo¬ 
bility ; a good figure ; and action full of 
fire and grace ; he has handsome hands, 
which he uses with infinite effect; and, 
on the whole, he is the best actor of the 
kind I ever saw. I could now quite un¬ 
derstand what a troubadour or jongleur 
might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a 
revived specimen of that extinct race. 
Such as he is might have been Gaucelm 
Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of Coeur de 
Lion, who lamented the death of the hero 
in such moving strains ; such might have 
been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang 
the praises of Queen Elinore’s beauty ; 
such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own 
Garonne ; such the wild Vidal : certain 
it is, that none of these troubadours of 
old could more move, by their singing or 
reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their 
long-smothered fire and traditional magic 
seems reillumined. 

“We found we had stayed hours in¬ 
stead of minutes with the poet ; but he 
would not hear of any apology, — only 
regretted that his voice was so out of 
tune, in consequence of a violent cold, 
under which he was really laboring, and 
hoped to see us again. He told us our 
countrywomen of Pau had laden him with 
kindness and attention, and spoke with 
such enthusiasm of the beauty of certain 
‘ misses,’ that I feared his little wife 
would feel somewhat piqued ; but, on the 
contrary, she stood by, smiling and happy, 
and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. 
I remarked that he had restored the 
poetry of the troubadours ; asked him if 
he knew their songs ; and said he was 
worthy to stand at their head. ‘ I am, in¬ 
deed, a troubadour,’ said he, with energy ; 
‘ but I am far beyond them all ; they 


49 1 


were but beginners ; they never composed 
a poem like my Fran^uneto ! there are 
no poets in France now, — there cannot 
be ; the language does not admit of it; 
where is the fire, the spirit, the expres¬ 
sion, the tenderness, the force of the Gas¬ 
con ? French is but the ladder to reach 
to the first floor of Gascon, — how can you 
get up to a height except by a ladder ! ’ 

“ I returned by Agen, after an absence 
in the Pyrenees of some months, and re 
newed my acquaintance with Jasmin and 
his dark-eyed wife. I did not expect that 
I should be recognized ; but the moment 
I entered the little shop I was hailed 
as an old friend. ‘ Ah ! ’ cried Jasmin, 
‘ enfin la voila encore ! ’ I could not but 
be flattered by this recollection, but soon 
found it was less on my own account that 
I was thus welcomed than because a cir¬ 
cumstance had occurred to the poet which 
he thought I could perhaps explain. He 
produced several French newspapers, in 
which he pointed out to me an article 
headed * Jasmin a Londres ’; being a 
translation of certain notices of himself, 
which had appeared in a leading English 
literary journal. He had, he said, been 
informed of the honor done him by nu¬ 
merous friends, and assured me his fame 
had been much spread by this means ; 
and he was so delighted on the occasion, 
that he had resolved to learn English, in 
order that he might judge of the transla¬ 
tions from his works, which, he had been 
told, were well done. I enjoyed his sur¬ 
prise, while I informed him that I knew 
who was the reviewer and translator; 
and explained the reason for the verses 
giving pleasure in an English dress to be 
the superior simplicity of the English lan¬ 
guage over Modern French, for which he 
has a great contempt, as unfitted for lyr¬ 
ical composition. Pie inquired of me re¬ 
specting Burns, to whom he had been 
likened; and begged me to tell him 
something of Moore. The delight of 
himself and his wife was amusing, at hav¬ 
ing discovered a secret which had puz¬ 
zled them so long. 

“ He had a thousand things to tell me ; 
in particular, that he had only the day 





49 2 


NOTES. 


before received a letter from the Duchess 
of Orleans, informing him that she had 
ordered a medal of her late husband to 
be struck, the first of which would be 
sent to him : she also announced to him 
the agreeable news of the king having 
granted him a pension of a thousand 
francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as 
he told us all this ; and declared, much 
as he was elated at the possession of a 
sum which made him a rich man for life, 
the kindness of the Duchess gratified him 
even more. 

“ He then made us sit down while he 
read us two new poems ; both charming, 
and full of grace and naivete; and one 
very affecting, being an address to the 
king, alluding to the death of his son. 
As he read, his wife stood by, and fear¬ 
ing we did not quite comprehend his lan¬ 
guage, she made a remark to that effect: 
to which he answered impatiently, ‘ Non¬ 
sense, — don’t you see they are in tears.’ 
This was unanswerable ; and we were al¬ 
lowed to hear the poem to the end ; and 
I certainly never listened to anything more 
feelingly and energetically delivered. 

“ We had much conversation, for he 
was anxious to detain us, and, in the 
course of it, he told me he had been by 
some accused of vanity. ‘ O,’ he rejoined, 

‘ what would you have ! I am a child of 
nature, and cannot conceal my feelings ; 
the only difference between me and a 
man of refinement is, that he knows how 
to conceal his vanity and exultation at 
success, which I let everybody see.’ ” — 
Bearn and the Pyrenees , I. 369 et seq. 

Page 209. A Christmas Carol. 

The following description of Christmas 
in Burgundy is from M. Fertiault’s Coup 
d'CEil sur les Noels en Bourgogne , pre¬ 
fixed to the Paris edition of Les Noels 
Bourguignons de Bernard de la Monnoye 
(Gui BarSzai ), 1842. 

“ Every year at the approach of Advent, 
people refresh their memories, clear their 
throats, and begin preluding, in the long 
evenings by the fireside, those carols 
whose invariable and eternal theme is the 
coming of the Messiah. They take from 
old closets pamphlets, little collections 


begrimed with dust and smoke, to which 
the press, and sometimes the pen, has 
consigned these songs ; and as soon as 
the first Sunday of Advent sounds, they 
gossip, they gad about, they sit together 
by the fireside, sometimes at one house, 
sometimes at another, taking turns in 
paying for the chestnuts and white wine, 
but singing with one common voice the 
grotesque praises of the IJttle Jesus. 
There are very few villages even, which, 
during all the evenings of Advent, do not 
hear some of these curious canticles 
shouted in their streets, to the nasal drone 
of bagpipes. In this case the minstrel 
comes as a reinforcement to the singers 
at the fireside ; he brings and adds his 
dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, it 
matters little which) to the joy which 
breathes around the hearth-stone; and 
when the voices vibrate and resound, one 
voice more is always welcome. There, it 
is not the purity of the notes which makes 
the concert, but the quantity, — non qual- 
itas, sed quantitas ; then (to finish at once 
with the minstrel), when the Saviour has 
at length been born in the manger, and 
the beautiful Christmas Eve is passed, 
the rustic piper makes his round among 
the houses, where every one compliments 
and thanks him, and, moreover, gives 
him in small coin the price of the shrill 
notes with which he has enlivened the 
evening entertainments. 

“ More or less until Christmas Eve, all 
goes on in this way among our devout 
singers, with the difference of some gal¬ 
lons of wine or some hundreds of chest¬ 
nuts. But this famous eve once come, 
the scale is pitched upon a higher key; 
the closing evening must be a memorable 
one. The toilet is begun at nightfall ; 
then comes the hour of supper, admon¬ 
ishing divers appetites ; and groups, as 
numerous as possible, are formed to take 
together this comfortable evening repast. 
The supper finished, a circle gathers 
around the hearth, which is arranged and 
set in order this evening after a particular 
fashion, and which at’ a later hour of the 
night is to become the object of special 
interest to the children. On the burning 
brands an enormous log has been placed. 








NOTES. 


This log assuredly does not change its 
nature, but it changes its name during 
this evening: it is called the Suche (the 
Yule-log). ‘Look you,’ say they to the 
children, ‘ if you are good this evening, 
Noel’ (for with children one must always 
personify) ‘ will rain down sugar-plums 
in the night.’ And the children sit de¬ 
murely, keeping as quiet as their tur¬ 
bulent little natures will permit. The 
groups of older persons, not always as 
orderly as the children, seize this good 
opportunity to surrender themselves with 
merry hearts and boisterous voices to the 
chanted worship of the miraculous Noel. 
For this final solemnity, they have kept 
the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, 
the most electrifying carols. Noel ! 
Noel ! Noel ! This magic word re¬ 
sounds on all sides ; it seasons every 
sauce, it is served up with every course. 
Of the thousands of canticles which are 
heard on this famous eve, ninety-nine in 
a hundred begin and end with this word ; 
which is, one may say, their Alpha and 
Omega, their crown and footstool. This* 
last evening, the merry-making is pro¬ 
longed. Instead of retiring at ten or 
eleven o’clock, as is generally done on 
all the preceding evenings, they wait for 
the stroke of midnight : this word suffi¬ 
ciently proclaims to what ceremony they 
are going to repair. For ten minutes or 
a quarter of an hour, the bells have been 
calling the faithful with a triple-bob- 
major ; and each one, furnished with a 
little taper streaked with various colors 
(the Christmas Candle), goes through the 
crowded streets, where the lanterns are 
dancing like Will-o’-the-Wisps, at the 
impatient summons of the multitudinous 
chimes. It is the Midnight Mass. Once 
inside the church, they hear with more or 
less piety the Mass, emblematic of the 
coming of the Messiah. Then in tumult 
and great haste they return homeward, 
always in numerous groups; they salute 
the Yule-log; they pay homage to the 
hearth; they sit down at table; and, 
amid songs which reverberate louder than 
ever, make this meal of after-Christmas, 
so long looked for, so cherished, so joy¬ 
ous, so noisy, and which it has been 


493 


thought fit to call, we hardly know why, 
Rossignon. The supper eaten at nightfall 
is no impediment, as you may imagine, to 
the appetite’s returning ; above all, if the 
going to and from church has made the 
devout eaters feel some little shafts of 
the sharp and biting north-wind. Ros¬ 
signon then goes on merrily, — sometimes 
far into the morning hours ; but, never¬ 
theless, gradually throats grow hoarse, 
stomachs are filled, the Yule-log burns 
out, and at last the hour arrives when 
each one, as best he may, regains his 
domicile and his bed, and puts with him¬ 
self between the sheets the material for a 
good sore-throat, or a good indigestion, 
for the morrow. Previous to this, care 
has been taken to place in the slippers, 
or wooden shoes of the children, the 
sugar-plums, which shall be for them, 
on their waking, the welcome fruits of 
the Christmas log.” 

In the Glossary, the Suche, or Yule- 
log, is thus defined : — 

“ This is a huge log, which is placed 
on the fire on Christmas Eve, and which 
in Burgundy is called, on this account, 
lai Suche de Noei. Then the father of 
the family, particularly among the middle 
classes, sings solemnly Christmas carols 
with his wife* and children, the smallest 
of whom he sends into the corner to pray 
that the Yule-log may bear him some 
sugar-plums. Meanwhile, little parcels 
of them are placed under each end of 
the log, and the children come and pick 
them up, believing in good faith, that the 
great log has borne them.” 

Page 211. The Golden Legend. 

The old Legenda A urea, or Golden 
Legend, was originally written in Latin, 
in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de 
Voragine, a Dominican friar, who after¬ 
wards became Archbishop of Genoa, and 
died in 1292. 

He called his book simply “ Legends 
of the Saints.” The epithet of Golden 
was given it by his admirers; for, as 
Wynkin de Worde says, “Like as pass- 
eth gold in value all other metals, so this 
Legend exceedeth all other books.” But 
Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind, 






494 A'OTES. 


calls it “a book written by a man of a 
leaden heart for the basenesse of the er- 
rours, that are without wit or reason, and 
of a brazen forehead, for his impudent 
boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous 
and incredible.” 

This work, the great text-book of the 
legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was 
translated into French in the fourteenth 
century by Jean de Vignay, and in the 
fifteenth into English by William Caxton. 
It has lately been made more accessible 
by a new French translation : La Legende 
Doree, traduite die Latin , par M. G. B. 
Paris, 1850. There is a copy of the orig¬ 
inal, with the Gesta Longobardorum ap¬ 
pended, in the Harvard College Library, 
Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496. 
The title-page is wanting; and the vol¬ 
ume begins with the Tabula Legendorum. 

I have called this poem the Golden Le¬ 
gend, because the story upon which it is 
founded seems to me to surpass all other 
legends in beauty and significance. It 
exhibits, amid the corruptions of the 
Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterested¬ 
ness and self-sacrifice, and the power of 
Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for 
all the exigencies of life and death. The 
story is told, and perhaps invented, by 
Hartmann von der Aue, a ' Minnesinger 
of the twelfth century. The original may 
be found in Mailath’s Altdeutsche Ge- 
dichte , with a modern German version. 
There is another in Marbach’s Volks- 
biicher, No. 32. 

Page 212. 

For these bells have been anointed, 

And baptized with holy water ! 

The Consecration and Baptism of Bells 
is one of the most curious ceremonies of 
the Church in the Middle Ages. The 
Council of Cologne ordained as follows : 

“ Let the bells be blessed, as the trum¬ 
pets of the Church militant, by which 
the people are assembled to hear the 
word of God ; the clergy to announce 
his mercy by day, and his truth in their 
nocturnal vigils : that by their sound the 
faithful may be invited to prayers, and 
that the spirit of devotion in them may 


be increased. The fathers have also 
maintained that demons affrighted by 
the sound of bells calling Christians to 
prayers, would flee away ; and when they 
fled, the persons of the faithful would be 
secure : that the destruction of lightnings 
and whirlwinds would be averted, and 
the spirits of the storm defeated.” — 
Edinburgh Encyclopedia, Art. Bells. See 
also Scheible’s Kloster , VI. 776. 

Page 228. It is the malediction of 
Eve ! 

“ Nec esses plus quam femina, quae 
nunc etiam viros transcendis, et quae 
maledictionem Evae in benedictionem 
vertisti Mariae.” — Epistola Abcelardi 
Heloissce. 

Page 239. To come back to my text! 

In giving this sermon of Friar Cuth- 
bert as a specimen of the Risus Easchales, 
or street-preaching of the monks at 
Easter, I have exaggerated nothing. 
This very anecdote, offensive as it is, 
comes from a discourse of Father Bar- 
letta, a Dominican friar of the fifteenth 
century, whose fame as a popular 
preacher was so great, that it gave rise 
to the proverb, 

Nescit predicare 
Qui nescit Barlettare. 

“ Among the abuses introduced in this 
century,” says Tiraboschi, “was that of 
exciting from the pulpit the laughter of 
the hearers ; as if that were the same 
thing as converting them. We have 
examples of this, not only in Italy, but 
also in France, where the sermons of 
Menot and Maillard, and of others, who 
would make a better appearance on the 
stage than in the pulpit, are still cele¬ 
brated for such follies.” 

If the reader is curious to see how far 
the freedom of speech was carried in 
these popular sermons, he is referred to 
Scheible’s Kloster , Vol. I., where he will 
find extracts from Abraham a Sancta 
Clara, Sebastian Frank, and others; and 
in particular an anonymous discourse 
called Der Graiiel der Verzuiistung ; The 
Abomination of Desolation, preached at 







NOTES. 


495 


Ottakring, a village west of Vienna, 
November 25, 1782, in which the license 
of language is carried to its utmost limit. 

See also Predicatoriana, on Revelations 
singnlieres et amusantes sur les Predica- 
tears ; par G. P. Philomneste. (Menin.) 
This work • contains extracts from the 
popular sermons of St. Vincent Ferrier, 
Barletta, Menot, Maillard, Marini, Rau- 
lin, Valladier, De Besse, Camus, Pere 
Andre, Bening, and the most eloquent of 
all, Jacques Brydaine. 

My authority for the spiritual inter¬ 
pretation of bell-ringing, which follows, 
is Durandus, Ration. Divin. Offic., 
Lib. I. cap. 4. 

Page 242. The Nativity : a Mira¬ 
cle-Play. 

A singular chapter in the history of 
the Middle Ages is that which gives 
account of the early Christian Drama, 
the Mysteries, Moralities, and Miracle- 
Plays, which were at first performed in 
churches, and afterwards in the streets, 
on fixed or movable stages. For the > 
most part, the Mysteries were founded 
on the historic portions of the Old and 
New Testaments, and the Miracle-Plays 
on the lives of Saints; a distinction not 
always observed, however, for in Mr. 
Wright’s “ Early Mysteries and other 
Latin Poems of the Twelfth and Thir¬ 
teenth Centuries,” the Resurrection of 
Lazarus is called a Miracle, and not a 
Mystery. The Moralities were plays, in 
which the Virtues and Vices were person¬ 
ified. 

The earliest religious play, which has 
been preserved, is the Christos Paschon of 
Gregory Nazianzen, written in Greek, in 
the fourth century. Next to this come 
the remarkable Latin plays of Roswitha, 
the Nun of Ganclersheim, in the tenth 
century, which, though crude and want¬ 
ing in artistic construction, are marked 
by a good deal of dramatic power and 
interest. A handsome edition of these 
plays, with a French translation, has been 
lately published, entitled Thedtre de 
Rotsvitha, Religieuse allcmande du X e 
Siecle. Par Charles Magnin . Paris, 
1845. 


The most important collections of 
English Mysteries and Miracle-Plays are 
those known as the Townley, the 
Chester, and the Coventry Plays. The 
first of these collections has been pub¬ 
lished by the Surtees Society, and the 
other two by the Shakespeare Society. 
In his Introduction to the Coventry 
Mysteries, the editor, Mr. Halliwell, 
quotes the following passage from 
Dugdale’s Antiquities of Warwick¬ 
shire : — 

“Before the suppression of the mon¬ 
asteries, this city was very famous for 
the pageants, that were played therein, 
upon Corpus-Christi day; which, oc¬ 
casioning very great confluence of people 
thither, from far and near, was of no 
small benefit thereto ; which pageants 
being acted with mighty state and rever¬ 
ence by the friars of this house, had 
theaters for the several 1 scenes, very 
large and high, placed upon wheels, and 
drawn to all the eminent parts of the 
city, for the better advantage of specta¬ 
tors ; and contain’d the story of the New 
Testament, composed into old English 
Rithme, as appeareth by an ancient MS. 
intituled Lndns Corporis Christi, or Lndns 
Conventricc. I have been told by some 
old people, who in their younger years 
were eyewitnesses of these pageants so 
acted, that the yeai'ly confluence of peo¬ 
ple to see that shew was extraordinary 
great, and yielded no small advantage to 
this city.” 

The representation of religious plays 
has not yet been wholly discontinued by 
the Roman Church. At Ober-Ammer- 
gau, in the Tyrol, a grand .spectacle of 
this kind is exhibited once in ten years. 
A very graphic description of that which 
took place in the year 1850 is given by 
Miss Anna Mary Howitt, in her “ Art- 
Student in Munich,” Vol. I. Chap. IV. 
She says : — 

“We had come expecting to feel our 
souls revolt at so material a representa¬ 
tion of Christ, as any representation of 
him we naturally imagined must be in a 
peasant’s Miracle-Play. Yet so far, 
strange to confess, neither horror, dis¬ 
gust, nor contempt was excited in our 










NOTES. 


496 


minds. Such an earnest solemnity and 
simplicity breathed throughout the whole 
of the performance, that to me, at least, 
anything like anger, or a perception of 
the ludicrous, would have seemed more 
irreverent on my part than was this 
simple, childlike rendering of the sublime 
Christian tragedy. We felt at times as 
though the figures of Cimabue’s, Giotto’s, 
•and Perugino’s pictures had become ani¬ 
mated, and were moving before us; 
there was the same simple arrangement 
and brilliant color of drapery, — the 
same earnest, quiet dignity about the 
heads, whilst the entire absence of all 
theatrical effect wonderfully increased the 
illusion. There were scenes and groups 
so extraordinarily like the early Italian 
pictures, that you could have declared 
they were the works of Giotto and 
Perugino, and not living men and women, 
had not the figures moved and spoken, 
and the breeze stirred their richly colored 
drapery, and the sun cast long, moving 
shadows behind them on the stage. 
These effects of sunshine and shadow, 
and of drapery fluttered by the wind, 
were very striking and beautiful; one 
could imagine how the Greeks must have 
availed themselves of such striking effects 
in their theatres open to the sky.” 

Mr. Bayard Taylor, in his “Eldorado,” 
gives a description of a Mystery he saw 
performed at San Lionel, in Mexico. 
See Vol. II. Chap. XI. 

“ Against the wing-wall of the Haci¬ 
enda del Mayo, which occupied one end 
of the plaza, was raised a platform, on 
which stood a table covered with scarlet 
cloth. A rude bower of cane-leaves, on 
one end of the platform, represented the 
manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, 
stretched from its top across the plaza to 
a hole in the front of the church, bore a 
large tinsel star, suspended by a hole in 
its centre. There was quite a crowd in 
the plaza, and very soon a procession 
appeared, coming up from the lower part 
of the village. The three kings took the 
lead; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that 
gloried in a gilded saddle and rose-be¬ 
sprinkled mans and tail, followed them, 
led by the angel; and several women, 
with curious masks of p iper, brought up 


the rear. Two characters, of the harle¬ 
quin sort — one with a dog’s head on his 
shoulders, and the other a bald-headed 
friar, with a huge hat hanging on his 
back — played all sorts of antics for the 
diversion of the crowd. After making 
the circuit of the plaza, the Virgin was 
taken to the platform, and entered the 
manger. King Herod took his seat at 
the scarlet table, with an attendant in 
blue coat and red sash, whom I took to 
be his Prime Minister. The three kings 
remained on their horses in front of the 
church ; but between them and the plat¬ 
form, under the string on which the star 
was to slide, walked two men in long 
white robes and blue hoods, with parch¬ 
ment folios in their hands. These were 
the Wise Men of the East, as one might 
readily know from their solemn air, and 
the mysterious glances which they cast 
towards all quarters of the heavens. 

“ In a little while, a company of women 
on the platform, concealed behind a cur¬ 
tain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune 
of * O pescator dell’onda.’ At the proper 
moment, the Magi turned towards the 
platform, followed by the star, to which a 
string was conveniently attached, that it 
might be slid along the line. The three 
kings followed the star till it reached the 
manger, when they dismounted, and in¬ 
quired for the sovereign, whom it had led 
them to visit. They were invited upon 
the platform, and introduced to Herod, 
as the only king ; this did not seem to 
satisfy them, and, after some conversa¬ 
tion, they retired. By this time the star 
had receded to the other end of the line, 
and commenced moving forward again, 
they following. The angel called them 
into the manger, where, upon their knees, 
they were shown a small wooden box, 
supposed to contain the sacred infant; 
they then retired, and the star brought 
them back no more. After this depart¬ 
ure, King Herod declared himself greatly 
confused by what he had witnessed, and 
was very much afraid this newly found 
king would weaken his power. Upon 
consultation with his Prime Minister, the 
Massacre of the Innocents was decided 
upon, as the only means of security. 

“ The angel, on hearing this, gave 







NOTES. 


497 


warning to the Virgin, who quickly got 
clown from the platform, mounted her be¬ 
spangled donkey, and hurried off. Her¬ 
od’s Prime Minister directed all the chil¬ 
dren to be handed up for execution. A 
boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and 
thrust forward ; the Minister took him 
by the heels in spite of his kicking, and 
held his head on the table. The little 
brother and sister of the boy, thinking he 
was really to be decapitated, yelled at 
the top of their voices, in an agony of ter¬ 
ror, which threw the crowd into a roar of 
laughter. King Herod brought down 
his sword with a whack on the table, and 
the Prime Minister, dipping his brush 
into a pot of white paint which stood be¬ 
fore him, made a flaring cross on the 
boy’s face. Several other boys were 
caught and served likewise ; and, finally, 
the two harlequins, whose kicks and 
struggles nearly shook down the platform. 
The procession then went off up the hill, 
followed by the whole population of the 
village. All the evening there were fan¬ 
dangos in the meson, bonfires and rock¬ 
ets on the plaza, ringing of bells, and 
high mass in the church, with the accom¬ 
paniment of two guitars, tinkling to lively 
polkas.” 

In 1852 there was a representation of 
this kind by Germans in Boston : and I 
have now before me the copy of a play¬ 
bill announcing the performance, on June 
10, 1852, in Cincinnati, of the “ Great 
Biblico-Historical Drama, the Life of 
Jesus Christ,” with the characters and 
the names of the performers. 

Page 256. The Scriptorium.’ 

A most interesting volume might be 
written on the Calligraphers and Chry- 
sographers, the transcribers and illumi¬ 
nators of manuscripts in the Middle Ages. 
These men were for the most part monks, 
who labored, sometimes for pleasure and 
sometimes for penance, in multiplying 
copies of the classics and the Scriptures. 

“ Of all bodily labors, which are proper 
for us,” says Cassiodorus, the old Cala¬ 
brian monk, “ that of copying books has 
always been more to my taste than any 
other. The more so, as in this exercise 

3 2 


. the mind is instructed by the reading of 
the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of 
homily to the others, whom these books 
may reach. It is preaching with the 
hand, by converting the fingers into 
tongues ; it is publishing to men in silence 
the words of salvation ; in fine, it is fight¬ 
ing against the demon with pen and ink. 
As many words as a transcriber writes, 
so many wounds the demon receives. 
In a word, a recluse, seated in his chair 
to copy books, travels into different prov¬ 
inces, without moving from the spot, and 
the labor of his hands is felt even where 
he is not.” 

Nearly every monastery was provided 
with its Scriptorium. Nicolas de Clair- 
vaux, St. Bernard’s secretary, in one of 
his letters describes his cell, which he 
calls Scriptoriolum, where he copied 
books. And Mabillon, in his Etudes Mo- 
nastiques, says that in his time were still 
to be seen at Citeaux “many of those lit¬ 
tle cells, where the transcribers and book¬ 
binders worked.” 

' Silvestre’s Paleograph ie Universellc 
contains a vast number of fac-similes of 
the most beautiful illuminated manuscripts 
of all ages and all countries ; and Mont- 
faucon in his Palceographia Grctca gives 
the names of over three hundred callig¬ 
raphers. He also gives an account of 
the books they copied, and the colophons, 
with which, as with a satisfactory flourish 
of the pen, they closed their long-contin¬ 
ued labors. Many of these are very curi¬ 
ous ; expressing joy, humility, remorse ; 
entreating the reader’s prayers and par¬ 
don for the writer’s sins ; and sometimes 
pronouncing a malediction on any one 
who should steal the book. A few of 
these I subjoin : — 

“ As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their 
native land, so are transcribers made 
glad, beholding the end of a book.” 

“ Sweet is it to write the end of any 
book.” 

“Ye who read, pray for me, who have 
written this book, the humble and sinful 
Theodulus.” 

“As many-therefore as shall read this 
book, pardon me, I beseech you, if aught 
I have erred in accent acute and grave. 















NOTES. 


498 


in apostrophe, in breathing soft or aspi¬ 
rate ; and may God save you all ! 
Amen.” 

“ If anything is well, praise the tran¬ 
scriber : if ill, pardon his unskilfulness.” 

“Ye who read, pray for me, the most 
sinful of all men, for the Lord’s sake.” 

“ The hand that has written this book 
shall decay, alas ! and become dust, and 
go down to the grave, the corrupter of all 
bodies. But all ye who are of the por¬ 
tion of Christ, pray that I may obtain the 
pardon of my sins. Again and again I 
beseech you with tears, brothers and fa¬ 
thers, accept my miserable supplication, 
O holy choir ! I am called John, woe is 
me ! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, 
in name only, not in unction.” 

“ Whoever shall carry away this book, 
without permission of the Pope, may he 
incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, 
of the Ploly Mother of God, of Saint John 
the Baptist, of the one hundred and eigh¬ 
teen holy Nicene Fathers, and of all the 
Saints ; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah ; 
and the halter of Judas ! Anathema, 
amen.” 

“ Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, 
and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with 
which I have written this book.” 

“ Mathusalas Machir transcribed this 
divinest book in toil, infirmity, and dan¬ 
gers many.” 

“ Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael 
Sophianus wrote this book in sport and 
laughter, being the guests of their noble 
and common friend Vincentius Pinellus, 
and Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man.” 

This last colophon, Montfaucon does 
not suffer to pass without reproof. 
“ Other calligraphers,” he remarks, “ de¬ 
mand only the prayers of their readers, 
and the pardon of their sins ; but these 
glory in their wantonness.” 

Page 262. Drink down to your peg! 

One of the canons of Archbishop An¬ 
selm, promulgated at the beginning of 
the twelfth century, ordains “ that priests 
go not to drinking-bouts, nor drink to 
pegs.” In the times of the hard-drinking 
Danes, King Edgar ordained that “ pins 
or nails should be fastened into the drink¬ 


ing-cups or horns at stated distances, and 
whosoever should drink beyond those 
marks at one draught should be obnox¬ 
ious to a severe punishment.” 

Sharpe, in his History of the Kings of 
England, says: “ Our ancestors were 
formerly famous for compotation ; their 
liquor was ale, and one method of amus¬ 
ing themselves in this way was with the 
peg-tankard. I had lately one of them 
in my hand. It had on the inside a row 
of eight pins, one above another, from 
top to bottom. It held two quarts, and 
was a noble piece of plate, so that there 
was a gill of ale, half a pint Winchester 
measure, between each peg. The law 
was, that every person that drank was to 
empty the space between pin and pin, so 
that the pins were so many measures to 
make the company all drink alike, and 
to swallow the same quantity of liquor. 
This was a pretty sure method of making 
all the company drunk, especially if it be 
considered that the rule was, that who¬ 
ever drank short of his pin, or beyond it, 
was obliged to drink again, and even as 
deep as to the next pin.” 

Page 262. The convent of St. Gildas 
de Rhuys. 

Abelard, in a letter to his friend Philin- 
tus, gives a sad picture of this monastery. 
“ I live,” he says, “ in a barbarous coun¬ 
try, the language of which I do not under¬ 
stand ; I have no conversation but with 
the rudest people, my walks are on the 
inaccessible shore of a sea, which is per¬ 
petually stormy. my monks are only 
known by their dissoluteness, and living 
without any rule or order, could you see 
the abby, Philintus, you would not call it 
one. the doors and walks are without 
any ornament, except the heads of wild 
boars and hinds feet, which are nailed up 
against them, and the hides of frightful 
animals, the cells are hung with the 
skins of deer, the monks have not so 
much as a bell to wake them, the cocks 
and dogs supply that defect, in short, 
they pass their whole days in hunting; 
would to heaven that were their greatest 
fault ! or that their pleasures terminated 
there ! I endeavor in vain to recall them 







NOTES. 499 


to their duty ; they all combine against 
me, and I only expose myself to continual 
vexations and dangers. I imagine I see 
every moment a naked sword hang over 
my head, sometimes they surround me, 
and load me with infinite abuses ; some¬ 
times they abandon me, and I am left 
alone to my own tormenting thoughts. I 
make it my endeavor to merit by my suf¬ 
ferings, and to appease an angry God. 
sometimes I grieve for the loss of the house 
of the Paraclete, and wish to see it again, 
ah Philintus, does not the love of Heloise 
still burn in my heart ? I have not yet 
triumphed over that unhappy passion, in 
the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, 
I pine, I speak the dear name Heloise, 
and am pleased to hear the sound.” — 
Letters of the Celebrated Abelard and 
Heloise. Translated by Mr. John Hughes. 
Glasgow, 1751. 

Page 275. Were it not for my magic 
garters and staff. 

The method of making the Magic Gar¬ 
ters and the Magic Staff is thus laid down 
in Les Secrets Merveilleux du Petit Albert , 
a French translation of Alberti Parvi 
Lucii Libellus de Mirabilibus Natures 
Arcanis: — 

“ Gather some of the. herb called 
motherwort, when the sun is entering the 
first degree of the sign of Capricorn ; let 
it dry a little in the shade, and make 
some garters of the skin of a young hare ; 
that is to say, having cut the skin of the 
hare into strips two inches wide, double 
them, sew the before-mentioned herb be¬ 
tween, and wear them on your-Iegs. No 
horse can long keep up with a man on 
foot, who is furnished with these garters.” 
— p. 128. 

“ Gather, on the morrow of All-Saints, 
a strong branch of willow, of which you 
will make a staff, fashioned to your liking. 
Hollow it out, by removing the pith from 
within, after having furnished the lower 
end with an iron ferule. Put into the 
bottom of the staff the two eyes of a 
young wolf, the tongue and heart of a 
dog, three green lizards, and the hearts 
of three swallows. These must all be 
dried in the sun, between two papers, 


having been first sprinkled with finely 
pulverized saltpetre. Besides all these, 
put into the staff seven leaves of vervain, 
gathered on the eve of St. John the Bap¬ 
tist, with a stone of divers colors, which 
you will find in the nest of the lapwing, 
and stop the end of the staff with a pomel 
of box, or of any other material you 
please, and be assured, that the staff will 
guarantee you from the perils and mis¬ 
haps which too often befall travellers, 
either from robbers, wild beasts, mad 
dogs, or venomous animals. It will also 
procure you the good-will of those with 
whom you lodge.” — p. 130. 

Page 279. Saint Elmo’s stars. 

So the Italian sailors call the phos¬ 
phorescent gleams that sometimes play 
about the masts and rigging of ships. 

Page 280. The School of Salerno. 

For a history of the celebrated schools 
of Salerno and Monte-Cassino, the reader 
is referred to Sir Alexander Croke’s In¬ 
troduction to the Regimen Sanitatis Saler- 
nitanum; and to Kurt Sprengel’s Ge- 
schichte der Arzneikunde, I. 463, or Jour- 
dan’s French translation of it, Llisloire de 
la Medicine , II. 354. 

Page 291. The Song of Hiawatha. 

This Indian Edda — if I may so call it 
— is founded on a tradition prevalent 
among the North American Indians, of a 
personage of miraculous birth, who was 
sent among them to clear their rivers, 
forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach 
them the arts of peace. IPe was known 
among different tribes by the several 
names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, 
Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. 
Schoolcraft gives an account of him in his 
Algic Researches , Vol. I. p. 134 ; and in 
his History , Condition , and Prospects of the 
Indian Tribes of the <> Uni ted States , Part 
III. p. 314, may be found the Iroquois 
form of the tradition derived from the 
verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief. 

Into this old tradition I have woven 
other curious Indian legends, drawn 
chiefly from the various and valuable writ¬ 
ings of Mr. Schoolcraft, to whom the lit- 
erary world is greatly indebted for his 







NOTES. 


5 °° 


indefatigable zeal in rescuing from obliv¬ 
ion so much of the legendary lore of the 
Indians. 

The scene of the poem is among the 
Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake 
Superior, in the region between the Pic¬ 
tured Rocks and the Grand Sable. 

Page 291. In the Vale of Tazuasentha. 

This valley, now called Norman’s Kill, 
is in Albany County, New York. 

Page 292. On the Mountains of the 
Prairie. 

Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes tin 
the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the 
North American Indians, Vol. II. p. 160, 
gives an interesting account of the Cdteau 
des Prairies, and the Red Pipe-stone 
Quarry. He says : — 

“ Here (according to their traditions) 
happened the mysterious birth of the red 
pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace 
and war to the remotest corners of the 
continent; which has visited every war¬ 
rior, and passed through its reddened 
stem the irrevocable oath of war and des¬ 
olation. And here, also, the peace¬ 
breathing calumet was born, and fringed 
with the eagle’s quills, which has shed its 
thrilling fumes over the land, and soothed 
the fury of the relentless savage. 

“ The Great Spirit at an ancient period 
here called the Indian nations together, 
and, standing on the precipice of the red 
pipe-stone rock, broke from its wall a 
piece, and made a huge pipe by turning 
it in his hand, which he smoked over 
them, and to the North, the South, the 
East, and the West, and told them that 
this stone was red, — that it was their 
flesh,—that they must use it for their 
pipes of peace, — that it belonged to them 
all, and that the war-club and scalping- 
knife must not be raised on its ground. 
At the last whiff of his pipe his head 
went into a great cloud, and the whole 
surface of the rock for several miles was 
melted and glazed ; two great ovens were 
opened beneath, and two women (guar¬ 
dian spirits of the place) entered them in 
a blaze of fire ; and they are heard there 
yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso-me-cos-te- 


won-dee), answering to the invocations 
of the high-priests or medicine-men, who 
consult them when they are visitors to 
this sacred place.” 

Page 295. Hark you, Bear ! you are a 
coward. 

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. 
In his account of the Indian Nations, he 
describes an Indian hunter as addressing 
a bear in nearly these words. “ I was 
present,” he says, “ at the delivery of this 
curious invective ; when the hunter had 
despatched the bear, I asked him how he 
thought that poor animal could under¬ 
stand what he said to it. ‘ O,’ said he 
in answer, ‘ the bear understood me very 
well; did you not observe how ashamed 
he looked while I was upbraiding him ? ’ ” 
— Transactions of the American Philo¬ 
sophical Society, Vol. I. p. 240. 

Page 299. Hush! the Naked Bear 
will hear thee ! 

Heckewelder, in a letter published in 
the Transactions of the American Philo¬ 
sophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks 
of this tradition as prevalent among the 
Mohicans and Delawares. 

“Their reports,” he says, “run thus: 
that among all animals that had been 
formerly in this country, this was the 
most ferocious ; that it was much larger 
than the largest of the common bears, 
and remarkably long-bodied ; all over 
(except a spot of hair on its back of a 
white color) naked. 

“ The history of this animal used to 
be a subject of conversation among the 
Indians, especially when in the woods a 
hunting. I have also heard them say to 
their children when crying : ‘ Hush ! the 
naked bear will hear you, be upon you, 
and devour you.’ ” 

Page 305. Where the falls of Minne¬ 
haha, etc. 

“ The scenery about Fort Snelling is 
rich in beauty. The Falls of St. An¬ 
thony are familiar to travellers, and to 
readers of Indian sketches. Between the 
fort and these falls are the ‘Little Falls,’ 
forty feet in height, on a stream that 









NOTES. 


empties into the Mississippi. The Indi¬ 
ans call them Mine-hah-hah, or ‘ laughing 
waters.’” — Mrs. Eastman’s Dacotah, 
or Legends of the Sioux, Introd. p. ii. 

Page 324. Sand Hills of the Nagow 
Wudjoo. 

A description of the Grand Sable, or 
great sand dunes of Lake Superior, is 
given in Foster and Whitney’s Report on 
the Geology of the Lake Superior Land 
District, Part II. p. 131. 

“ The Grand Sable possesses a scenic 
interest little inferior to that of the Pic¬ 
tured Rocks. The explorer passes ab¬ 
ruptly from a coast of consolidated sand 
to one of loose materials ; and although 
in the one case the cliffs are less precipi¬ 
tous, yet in the other they attain a higher 
altitude. He sees before him a long 
reach of coast, resembling a vast sand¬ 
bank, more than three hundred and fifty 
feet in height, without a trace of vege¬ 
tation. Ascending to the top, rounded 
hillocks of blown sand are observed, with 
occasional clumps of trees, standing out > 
like oases in the desert.” 

Page 325. Onaway ! Awake, beloved l 

The original of this song may be found 
in Littell’s Living Age, Vol. XXV. p. 45. 

Page 326. Or the Red Swan floating, 
flying. 

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan 
may be found in Schoolcraft’s Algic Re¬ 
searches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers 
were hunting on a wager to see who 
would bring home the first game. 

“ They were to shoot no other animal,” 
so the legend says, “ but such as each 
was in the habit of killing. They set out 
different ways : Odjibwa, the youngest, 
had not gone far before he saw a bear, 
an animal he was not to kill, by the 
agreement. He followed him close, and 
drove an arrow through him, which 
brought him to the ground. Although 
contrary to the bet, he immediately com¬ 
menced skinning him, when suddenly 
something red tinged all the air around 
him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he 
was perhaps deceived ; but without effect, 
for the red hue continued. At length he 
heard a strange noise at a distance. It 


5°i 


first appeared like a human voice, but 
after following the sound for some dis¬ 
tance, he reached the shores of a lake, 
and soon saw the object he was looking 
for. At a distance out in the lake sat a 
most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage 
glittered in the sun, and who would now 
and then make the same noise he had 
heard. He was within long bow-shot, 
and, pulling the arrow from the bow¬ 
string up to his ear, took deliberate aim 
and shot. The arrow took no effect; 
and he shot and shot again till his quiver 
was empty. Still the swan remained, 
moving round and round, stretching its 
long neck and dipping its bill into the 
water, as if heedless of the arrows shot 
at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his 
own and his brothers’ arrows, and shot 
them all away. He then stood and gazed. 
at the beautiful bird. While standing, 
he remembered his brother’s saying that 
in their deceased father’s medicine-sack 
were three magic arrows. Off he started, 
his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming 
all scruples. At any other time, he would 
have deemed it sacrilege to open his fa¬ 
ther’s medicine-sack ; but now he hastily 
seized the three arrows and ran back, 
leaving the other contents of the sack 
scattered over the lodge. The swan was 
still there. He shot the first arrow with 
great precision, and came very near to it. 
The second came still closer ; as he took 
the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, 
drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass 
through the neck of the swan a little 
above' the breast. Still it did not pre¬ 
vent the bird from flying off, which it did, 
however, at first slowly, flapping its wings 
and rising gradually into the air, and 
then, flying off toward the sinking of the 
sun.” — pp. 10-12. 

Page 330. When L think of 77 iy be¬ 
loved. 

The original of this song may be found 
in 07 ieota, p. 15. 

Page 330. Sing the 7 nysteries of Mon- 
damhi. 

The Indians hold the maize, or Indian 
corn, in great veneration. “ They esteem 
it so important and divine a grain,” says 
Schoolcraft, “that their story-tellers in- 








NOTES. 


502 


vented various tales, in which this idea is 
symbolized under the form of a special 
gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa- 
Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, that 
is, the Spirit’s grain or berry, have a 
pretty story of this kind, in which the 
stalk in full tassel is represented as de¬ 
scending from the sky, under the guise 
of a handsome youth, in answer to the 
prayers of a young man at his fast of 
virility, or coming to manhood. 

“ It is well known that corn-planting, 
and corn-gathering, at least among all 
the still uncolonized tribes, are left en¬ 
tirely to the females and children, and a, 
few superannuated old men. It is not 
generally known, perhaps, that this labor 
is not compulsory, and that it is assumed 
by the females as a just equivalent, in 
their view, for the onerous and continu¬ 
ous labor of the other sex, in providing 
meats, and skins for clothing, by the 
chase, and in defending their villages 
against their enemies, and keeping in¬ 
truders off their territories. A good In¬ 
dian housewife deems this a part of her 
prerogative, and prides herself to have a 
store of corn to exercise her hospitality, 
or duly honor her husband’s hospitality, 
in the entertainment of the lodge guests.” 
— Oneota , p. 82. 

Page 330. 77 ius the fields shall be more 
fruitful. 

“ A singular proof of this belief, in 
both sexes, of the mysterious influence of 
the steps of a woman on the vegetable 
and insect creation, is found in an ancient 
custom which was related to me, respect¬ 
ing corn-planting. It was the practice of 
the hunter’s wife, when the field of corn 
had been planted, to choose the first dark 
or over-clouded evening to perform a se¬ 
cret circuit, sans habillement, around the 
field. For this purpose she slipped out 
of the lodge in the evening, unobserved, 
to some obscure nook, where she com¬ 
pletely disrobed. Then, taking her 
matchecota, or principal garment, in one 
hand, she dragged it around the field. 
This was thought to insure a prolific crop, 
and to prevent the assaults of insects and 
worms upon the grain. It was supposed 


they could not creep over the charmed 
line.”— Oneota , p. 83. 

Page 331. With his prisoner-string he 
bound him. 

“ These cords,” says Mr. Tanner, “are 
made of the bark of the elm-tree, by boil¬ 
ing and then immersing it in cold water. 
. ... The leader of a war party com¬ 
monly carries several fastened about his 
waist, and if, in the course of the fight, 
any one of his young men takes a pris¬ 
oner, it is his duty to bring him immedi¬ 
ately to the chief, to be tied, and the lat¬ 
ter is responsible for his safe-keeping.” — 
Narrative of Captivity and Adventures, p. 
412. 

Pa g e 333* 

Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, 

Paimosaid, who steals the maize-car. 

“ If one of the young female huskers 
finds a red ear of corn, it is typical of a 
brave admirer, and is regarded as a fit¬ 
ting present to some young warrior. But 
if the ear be crooked, and tapering to a 
point, no matter what color, the whole 
circle is set in a roar, and wa-ge-min is 
the word shouted aloud. It is the sym¬ 
bol of a thief in the cornfield. It is con¬ 
sidered as the image of an old man stoop¬ 
ing as he enters the lot. Had the chisel 
of Praxiteles been employed to produce 
this image, it could not more vividly 
bring to the minds of the merry group 
the idea of a pilferer of their favorite 
mondamin. . . . 

“ The literal meaning of the term is, a 
mass, or crooked ear of grain; but the 
ear of corn so called is a conventional 
type of a little old man pilfering ears of 
corn in a cornfield. It is in this manner 
that a single word or term, in these curi¬ 
ous languages, becomes the fruitful par¬ 
ent of many ideas. And we can thus 
perceive why it is that the word wagemin 
is alone competent to excite merriment 
in the husking circle. 

“ This term is taken as the basis of the 
cereal chorus, or corn song, as sung by 
the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is 
coupled with the phrase Paimosaid — a 





NOTES. 


5°3 


permutative form of the Indian substan¬ 
tive, made from the verb pimp-o-sa, to 
walk. Its literal meaning is, he who 
walks, or the walker; but the ideas con¬ 
veyed by it are, he who walks by night to 
pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind 
of parallelism in expression to the preced¬ 
ing term.” — Oneota, p. 254. 

Page 339. Pugasaiiig with thirteen 
pieces. 

This Game of the Bowl is the princi¬ 
pal game of hazard among the Northern 
tribes of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives 
a particular account of it in Oneota , p. 85. 
“ This game,” he says, “ is very fascinat¬ 
ing to some portions of the Indians. They 
stake at it their ornaments, weapons, 
clothing, canoes, horses, everything in 
fact they possess ; and have been known, 
it is said, to set up their wives and chil¬ 
dren, and even to forfeit their own liberty. 
Of such desperate stakes I have seen no 
examples, nor do I think the game itself 
in common use. It is rather confined to 
certain persons, who hold the relative 
rank of gamblers in Indian society, — 
men who are not noted as hunters or 
warriors, or steady providers for their 
families. Among these are persons who 
bear the term of Ienadizze-wug, that is, 
wanderers about the country, braggado¬ 
cios, or fops. It can hardly be classed 
with the popular games of amusement, 
by which skill and dexterity are acquired. 
I have generally found the chiefs and 
graver men of the tribes, who encouraged 
the young men to play ball, and are sure 
to be present at the customary sports, to 
witness, and sanction, and applducl them, 
speak lightly and disparagingly of this 
game of hazard. Yet it cannot be denied 
that some of the chiefs, distinguished in 
war and the chase, at the West, can be 
referred to as lending their example to its 
fascinating power.” 

See also his History, Condition, and 
Prospects of the Indian Tribes, Part II. p. 
72. 

Page 345. To the Pictured Rocks of 
sandstone. 

The reader will find a long description 


of the Pictured Rocks in Foster and 
Whitney’s Report on the Geology of the 
Lake Superior Land District, Part II. p. 
124. From this I make the following 
extract: — 

“ The Pictured Rocks may be described 
in general terms, as a series of sandstone 
bluffs extending along the shore of Lake 
Superior for about five miles, and rising, 
in most places, vertically from the water, 
without any beach at the base, to a height 
varying from fifty to nearly two hundred 
feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, 
they might not, so far as relates to height 
or extent, be worthy of a rank among great 
natural curiosities, although such an as¬ 
semblage of rocky strata, washed by the 
waves of the gi'eat lake, would not, under 
any circumstances, be destitute of gran¬ 
deur. To the voyager, coasting along 
their base in his frail canoe, they would, 
at all times, be an object of dread ; the 
recoil of the surf, the rock-bound coast, 
affording, for miles, no place of refuge, — 
the lowering sky, the rising wind, — all 
these would excite his apprehension, and 
induce him to ply a vigorous oar until 
the dreaded wall was passed. But in the 
Pictured Rocks there are two features 
which communicate to the scenery a 
wonderful and almost unique character. 
These are, first, the curious manner in 
which the cliffs have been excavated, and 
worn away by the action of the lake, 
which, for centuries, has dashed an ocean¬ 
like surf against their base ; and second, 
the equally curious manner in which large 
portions of the surface have been colored 
by bands of brilliant hues. 

“ It is from the latter circumstance 
that the name, by which these cliffs are 
known to the American traveller, is de¬ 
rived ; while that applied to them by the 
French voyageurs (‘ Les Portails ’) is de¬ 
rived from the former, and by far the 
most striking peculiarity. 

“ The term Pictured Rocks has been in 
use for a great length of time ; but when 
it was first applied, we have been unable 
to discover. It would seem that the first 
travellers were more impressed with the 
novel and striking distribution of colors 
on the surface, than with the astonishing 










NOTES. 


5°4 


variety of form into which the cliffs them¬ 
selves have been worn. . . . 

“ Our voyageurs had many legends to 
relate of the pranks of the Mennibojou in 
these caverns, and, in answer to our in¬ 
quiries, seemed disposed to fabricate sto¬ 
ries, without end, of the achievements of 
this Indian deity.” 


Page 390. 

That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder. 

The words of St. Augustine are, — 
“ De vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, 
si vitia ipsa calcamus.” 

Sermon III. De Ascensione. 

Page 391. The Phantom Ship. 

A detailed account of this “ apparition 
of a Ship in the Air ” is given by Cotton 
Mather in his Magnolia Christi, Book I. 
Ch. VI. It is contained in a letter from 
the Rev. James Pierpont, Pastor of New 
Haven. To this account Mather adds 
these words : — 

“ Reader, there being yet living so 
many credible gentlemen, that were eye¬ 
witnesses of this wonderful thing, I ven¬ 
ture to publish it for a thing as undoubted 
as ’t is wonderful.” 

Page 394. And the Emperor but a 
Macho. 

Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. 


Golondrina is the feminine form of Golon- 
drino , a swallow, and also a cant name 
for a deserter. 

Page 397. Victor Galbraith. 

This poem is founded on fact, Victor 
Galbraith was a bugler in a company of 
volunteer cavalry; and was shot in 
Mexico for some breach of discipline. 
It is a common superstition among sol¬ 
diers, that no balls will kill them unless 
their names are written on them. The 
old proverb says, “ Every bullet has its 
billet.” 

Page 398. Oliver Basselin. 

Oliver Basselin, the “ Pbre joyeux du 
Vaudeville,” flourished in the fifteenth 
century, and gave to his convivial songs 
the name of his native valleys, in which 
he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name 
was afterwards corrupted into the modern 
Vaudeville. 

Page 400. / remember the sea-fight far 

away. 

This was the engagement between the 
Enterprise and Boxer, off the harbor of 
Portland, in which both captains were 
slain. They were buried side by side, in 
the cemetery on Mountjoy. 

Page 404. Santa Filomena. 

“ At Pisa the church of San Francisco 
contains a chapel dedicated lately to 
Santa Filomena ; over the altar is a pic¬ 
ture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint 
as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, floating 
down from heaven, attended by two 
angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, 
and beneath, in the foreground, the sick 
and maimed, who are healed by her inter¬ 
cession.”— Mrs. Jameson, Sacred and 
Legendary Art, II. 298. 



Page 356. To'iuard the sun his hands 
were lifted. 

In this manner and with such saluta¬ 
tions, was Father Marquette received by 
the Illinois. See his Voyages et Decou- 
ver/es, Section V., in Shea’s Discovery 
and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley , 
pages 22 and 242. 


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